


and crack the darkest sky wide open

by mswyrr



Series: when our truth is burned from history [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Polyamory, Pre-OT3, post-7x07
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-01 03:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12148032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mswyrr/pseuds/mswyrr
Summary: In the days before the battle against the Night King, the great houses of Stark and Targaryen unite at Winterfell.[This is the first of two planned prequels to "Terms of Surrender." Though the relationships are all in the early stages here, the end goal of the series is an OT3 and that will be reflected throughout.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to notyourfuckingalatea, who poured hours into helping me with this and went over my drafts with a fine-tooth comb. And thanks also to everyone who told me I really needed to give the Dany + Sansa pov background to the events in "Terms of Surrender." You were right! And it's been fun exploring it.
> 
> I know this first chapter starts out with Sansa in a dark headspace re: Dany. I wanted to say that I love Sansa and Dany both, and part of that is allowing them to be the admirable but also flawed people they are. In Sansa's case, that means that she's--in our culture's phrasing--"triggered" by the thought of an unknown monarch having great power over her. She was physically abused and emotionally tortured by Joffrey and Cersei, and that trauma remains. Dany and Sansa are going to become dear friends/family and eventually fall in love, so please don't take me letting them "start at zero" as an insult to either one. I'm also not hating on Jon! Sansa is frustrated with him, but her vision will be balanced out in coming chapters. I intend to switch pov between Dany and Sansa.

Within a day of Lord Baelish’s execution, Sansa received word from the Wall. A boy of no more than ten arrived on horseback. The letter he carried, hastily scrawled and signed by Lord Commander Eddison Tollett, said that the youngest brother of the Night’s Watch had been chosen to bring word of a devastating attack. It made sense. The horse could cover more ground with such a light burden. And, in doing the smart thing, they had also saved the boy’s life. She remembered that Jon counted Tollett as a friend and could see the mark of it in this choice. She hoped he yet lived.

Sansa had the boy brought to her solar, where the maids plied him with hot broth and furs.

His name was _Griff if it please your ladyship_. In his nervousness he ran it all together, so it sounded as if the second part was his title. He rallied then, raising his chin and declaring that the Lord Commander assigned him to Winterfell. As soon as it came, though, his courage waned. He unfolded his tale haltingly, crying big, hot tears that dripped into the mug of broth he clutched. 

The Wall had fallen. The Night King had destroyed it with a dragon that breathed blue flame. And now the dead, over a hundred thousand of them, were making their way south. Sansa realized then that, no matter what Jon had said, she’d always believed that the Wall would protect them. It was eternal, unassailable. She had believed in it so deeply she had not even counted it among her beliefs. Her trust in it had outlasted all the gods.

Learning of its destruction was like discovering that the ground had turned to snakes beneath her feet. The Night King could be flying here even now, and they would be helpless before him. Every man, woman, and child dead, converted to swell his ranks. She tightened her hand into a fist and took careful breaths around the fear trying to claw its way up her throat.

The boy was looking at her, terrified green eyes in a narrow little face, as if she had all the answers. She remembered being that young once. Believing that somebody would protect her, somebody would fix things. It took her so long to realize that they never would.

Perhaps this child could be saved from that hard lesson for a while yet. Sansa composed herself, and did what her lady mother would do. “You are a very brave young man, Griff,” she told the boy. “And you have done Winterfell a good service, in bringing us this news.” The Wall was gone now and they might all fall with it. But if they didn’t, she would see that this boy had the chance at a new life. Something better than the misery of the Wall. Perhaps working in the stables, if he liked horses, or as a guard.

Pride swelled in him, straightening his carriage, firming the expression on his tear-streaked face. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, his tone clear and strong for the first time in their conversation.

When Rynna came to collect the dishes, Sansa put the boy in her care. She was a good woman, from one of the small farmholds. She and her family had come, as their people had for generations, to survive the winter protected in these walls. Winterfell was a promise to all the people of the North, that life would return. Winter would end. It was promise Sansa would keep faith with. 

But she could not do it alone. That was outside her powers. She stood, went to the window. Her view was obscured by driving snow. The daylight was already gone, fading hour by hour before the Night King’s advance.

Where _was_ Jon and his--Sansa recalled Littlefinger’s description of her with annoyance--beautiful, young, unmarried queen? Could they still be idling in King’s Landing, attempting to persuade Cersei Lannister to see reason? That was a hopeless task, which she might have explained to Jon had he consulted her. On anything whatsoever.

Regardless, Sansa wanted him here, and even the Targaryen queen he’d chosen without seeking anyone’s counsel. Winterfell could use her armies and dragons. With Jon’s military skill, it might be enough to beat the dead back. Hope came to her then; the Wall was gone and so were the gods, but Winterfell and its people remained. And Jon Snow, who would fight for them with all his heart. While he did that, Sansa could figure out how to salvage something of his reign from his own political naivete.

But first he must return, while there were those yet living in the North to reign over.

-

 

"This dragon queen," Arya said, appearing beside Sansa in the corridor, "what do you make of her?"

"We will die without her," Sansa replied, curtly. That was true enough. She had made a promise to herself never to lie to Arya. She would not even play at the edges of it. They had built the bridge between them with truth, and it was by truth that they would maintain it.

But she didn't have to say everything she thought at once.

Arya cocked her head, taking that in. She maintained silence the rest of the way to Sansa's chambers. Once the door was closed, Arya smirked: "All right. What do you really think of her?"

"I think we will die without her," Sansa repeated. "And," she brought out the part she had left unspoken, "I fear what living with her afterward might be like. As I might with any unknown monarch."

Arya walked to the fireplace where she stood, facing Sansa, her hands folded behind her back. "Some people say she's like her father the Mad King. That she has a taste for burning people alive." 

"I've heard that. But Lord Tyrion would not serve a mad queen," Sansa said. "Not as I knew him, at least." She took up a seat across from where Arya stood. "I’ll need to observe them, to know for sure.”

"And if you don't like what you see?" Arya asked, probing at her. Her watchful eyes could be as sharp as her knives. At least Sansa knew now that it was not ill meant. They were on the same side. This frankness might save them all, as it had when Littlefinger tried to set them at each other’s throats.

"She's Jon's choice," Sansa said, probing right back.  "I thought that might make you a partisan in her favor."

"You were Jon's choice too, for regent," Arya reminded her, "but I didn't trust you until I saw proof."

Something inside Sansa cringed at the memory of that. More time needed to pass, before she could look at it without feeling intense vertigo. It was as if she had nearly stepped off one of the high towers in a fog. They had been a moment away from being dashed on the rocks, all of them. Now that it was over, she tried to accept Arya as she was, without flinching. And be thankful for her. The years had done much to both of them. Sansa was hardly a normal girl herself anymore. There were times when only the memory of Ramsay Bolton's screams, the coppery scent of his blood, brought her peace.

“So, what will you do, if she really is mad?”

"That is my biggest concern," Sansa admitted. "If she proves dangerous, who might stand against her? House Targaryen once more has dragons." A mad queen with utter military dominance, able to destroy armies with one breath from the lungs of her beasts. It was a nightmare come to life.

Surely it wasn’t so. Could Lord Tyrion be deceived or so changed in his character? Could Jon spend weeks with her and not see it? And yet the thought gnawed at her, circling through her mind with memories of King’s Landing. She would never forget what it meant, to be a plaything for the caprice of kings and queens. There had been so much comfort in Jon's reign, even when they disagreed. He would never hurt anyone like that, not even a stranger. And yet he had handed her safety away to a woman she did not know, without even seeking her advice first.

It was his right, as her king. And yet her heart ached. She thought he understood her better.

She hoped this queen was a paragon, so she could find reason to forgive at once. But Jon’s straightforward good nature could easily be used against him. Mad did not mean stupid, as Ramsay Bolton had taught her.

Arya pulled out her knife, demonstrating, "Slit her throat from behind,” she slashed the knife through the air, across an invisible throat, its bright Valyrian steel blade glimmering in the firelight, “and the beasts won't know who did it. If I take her face, they might be fooled long enough for Bran to warg them." She flipped the blade lightly and returned it to its sheath.

Sansa sat back in her chair, astonished. "You've thought this through," she said. And it might just work too. At least it was something. It was far more than Sansa had been able to come up with, as her mind kept her awake, spinning out the tortures she might have to endure. The things she might have to do to keep her family safe.

As if the Night King’s march was not nightmare enough.

"I do it for a lot of people," Arya admitted, watching Sansa's face. "It’s good to have a plan,” she said, “that way you’re never helpless.” There was a kind of easy friendliness about her now. As if she was sharing a trick for getting a good night’s sleep. You just warm up some hot milk, sister, and plot a murder or two.

"Why are you sharing your plan with me now?" Sansa asked, putting the pieces together in her mind.

"You looked like you needed it," Arya said, and the final piece clicked together, along with a warmth in Sansa's heart that was so sharp it was almost painful. “If she's a monster, you won't have to placate her," Arya said, a rage so deep and so fierce it had become a kind of bright calm coming over her. "You won't have to let her hurt you. You won't have to pretend for her or lie for her or sit around helpless. None of us will, ever again."

This was her sister’s best heart. The nature of her love. It was beautiful, for all that it was fearsome. And it was open to Sansa, as much as Jon or Bran. She could feel that now, in the gift of Arya choosing to share her plan. Tears flashed hot in Sansa's eyes. "Thank you, Arya."

Arya smiled. "Don't mention it." On the way out, she paused to place a hand on Sansa's shoulder. "It’s the least I can do. You make nice with the lords all day, so I don’t have to."

Sansa laughed, reaching up to squeeze Arya's hand. Arya's love was very different than the comfort Jon gave her, but it spoke to a part of her he didn't. Arya had learned something, in her own way, similar to Sansa. Determination to rip the throats from anyone who would again make her powerless. And pleasure in the thought of it, too.

After Arya left, silent as a cat, Sansa stared into the flames a while, recalculating her concerns around this new information. When she returned to her desk full of paperwork, she felt lighter. They had all grown strange, in one way or another. Returning home broken and remade by the world. Each having learned different ways to survive. And they would fight with all their hearts for each other.

-

 

When the Targaryen dragons appeared in the skies over Winterfell, Sansa finally knew relief. They circled once, twice, three times, as graceful on the wing as hunting birds, though one looked to be the size of Winterfell’s largest tower. Everyone rushed outside, stared up, awestruck. Every hour of the day since Sansa had learned of the Night King’s dragon she had feared its coming. Imagined it laying waste to Winterfell with one breath of its blue fire.

She had no defense against it.

There _was_ no defense, except another dragon. And now Winterfell hosted two. Sansa grudgingly made a mark in the Targaryen queen’s favor in her mind. Jon must have received her raven, and the queen had willingly rushed here to them, ahead of her armies. She didn’t have to do that.

After their impressive show, the dragons landed, politely, outside the walls. It was another gesture intended to reassure, and Sansa took it as such. However, the beasts were a weapon. No matter how delicately you held a weapon, it was always a threat.

Sansa walked, with Arya at her side, to greet them at the gates. In her mind, everything would be proper and careful. This was a Targaryen, after all, a house of people known as much for their refinement as their madness. She assumed that was what had caught Jon wrong-footed in his negotiations with the queen. Honestly, what else did Sansa expect? It was no mark against their characters that Jon and Ser Davos were not prepared to deal with such a woman and her advisors.

Jon’s honesty and forthrightness sufficed among the Northern lords, who had an instinctive respect for homespun virtues. But the Targaryens were not of the North. She imagined him standing before a queen seated on a dragon, clothed in purple silk, with a crown of silver so pure it was like a moon upon her head, and… being himself. Heart on his sleeve for everyone to see. Ser Davos at his side, the light of pride shining in his eyes.

Gods, and they'd been there for over a _month_. Held captive, Jon probably going out of his mind with the need to return home to his people.

Sansa straightened to her full height and mentally prepared for a conversation like the ones she’d witnessed at King’s Landing, nobles dueling with words, attentive to every detail. Sansa could not fight on the field of battle, but she knew this arena well enough. She could show the queen that House Stark knew something of the world.

If her best hopes were realized, she would find something to work with in this queen.

When they reached the gates, the absurdity of her mental preparation became clear. The moment that Arya and Jon saw each other it was as if they were children again, running across the courtyard, wide smiles on their faces. Jon scooped Arya up in a hug and spun her, his face pressed against her hair, eyes closed in rapture. He seemed to breathe her in.

Sansa felt the tension in the crowd of people who had formed at a respectful distance ease then. If Jon and Arya were so comfortable around the queen, they must be safe too. The people moved away, most returning to their work. A few hung as near as they could, under the pretense of some task or another.

Sansa herself watched from outside the circle of this warm reunion, somewhat at a loss. Then her gaze found the Targaryen queen, also standing forgotten in the light of their affection. She was a vision. Sansa found her attention arrested by every detail of the queen, from the elegant white furs she wore to her intricate braids and the stunning look of the infamous Targaryen features. None of the images Sansa had seen of the queen’s ancestors did it justice.

She was like something out of a legend.

Sansa had heard songs of beauty that could strike a man dumb. She remembered losing track of her own words in the presence of Margaery’s encompassing warmth. Such charm, she imagined, must be what the poets meant. It had often been the sole joy of her days, to be caught up in that dizzy excitement. Around Margaery, Sansa had come alive in every nerve and, for the short time they were together, being alive didn’t hurt. In contrast to that warmth, Daenerys Targaryen seemed to still her very thoughts. She was so perfect and small, Sansa had the strangest desire to pick her up, set her someplace high to admire her.

When Sansa’s distraction waned, she became annoyed at herself. She intended to impress the queen, not gawp at her like a rube.

“Where’s Bran?” Jon asked, setting Arya down.

“He’s resting,” Arya said, casually. Sansa appreciated once more her capacity for lying; Bran was almost constantly warging now, to track the movements of the Army of the Dead. However, she and Arya had decided to keep as much of the scope of Bran’s sight concealed from the queen as they could. His gift had saved them from Littlefinger, and it might be needed to save them from this queen one day too.

A look of sorrow crossed Jon’s face. “Of course.”

“Are you going to introduce us?” Arya asked, looking over at the Targaryen queen, seemingly unimpressed by her grandeur. For once, Sansa was glad for her sister’s casual disdain for pretty things. She wished that she too was so unmoved.

“Oh, yes,” Jon said, turning to extend a hand to the queen. It was a casual gesture that conveyed intimacy, and the queen accepted it, stepping closer and smiling at them as she took Jon’s arm.

Sansa took note of that, waiting to be introduced before she spoke. “This is…” Jon turned to Arya, who was nearest, and Sansa nearly winced: it was not sibling jealousy but simple decorum that demanded Sansa be introduced first. Foregoing it indicated a lack of sophistication that spoke of political vulnerability. Though she doubted there was much face to be saved on that front at this point. Nevertheless, it still pleased her when, at the last moment, he remembered protocol. “The Lady of Winterfell,” he said, with such pride in his voice she felt her heart warm at it, “my sister, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa stepped forward and gave the graceful nod of acknowledgement she had planned – it was respectful, but the respect due an equal visiting one’s domain, not the submission of a subject. She watched the queen’s face closely; her response might tell much. “You are welcome to Winterfell, your grace,” Sansa said.

“Thank you, Lady Stark,” the queen replied. She showed no hint of offense. Rather, her features softened and Sansa saw her hand tighten on Jon’s arm. “Lord Tyrion speaks very highly of you,” she said, in a clear effort to be kind. “As does your brother.”

As with her rush to their defense and the way she comported her dragons, this showed good grace. She was trying, very hard, to make herself agreeable. That did not explain her motives, but it gave reason for hope.

A queen like Cersei would have given her true nature away within minutes of arriving. This queen was either better or smarter. Perhaps both.

Jon beamed down at the queen and then looked up at Sansa, naked eagerness in his eyes. Sansa felt her heart twist; he looked like a proud little boy showing off something precious he had found. Like Bran had the day he brought home his direwolf. Jon had found a magical creature to adore. This one last time, Littlefinger was right.

Sansa had thought Jon wiser than that. The last time she had been overawed by a pretty monarch, she was a child. And the world had savaged her for it. Searing places in her heart with a hot knife until they were numb and dead. Those places were still alive in Jon. It was painful to witness.

_Life is not a song._

If everything went right, he would never know what it was like to lose that innocence. Even if they went terribly wrong, she and Arya would lie to protect him. She wouldn’t wish it otherwise; she wouldn’t wish what had happened to her on anyone she loved. But it put a distance between them, like the distance she had felt before the Battle of Winterfell. There were things he simply could not understand.

Sansa’s only comfort was that the queen did not seem unmoved by him. There was a girlish sweetness about her way with Jon. It surprised and concerned Sansa. She had shown people what they wished to see often enough. Sweetness could be feigned. Even with dragons to protect her, there must be something hard as steel inside a woman to make a queen.

“I’m honored to hear it,” Sansa replied, keeping her tone sincere but not too warm. This queen had found Jon an easy conquest. It would do her good to have to work harder for the rest of them.

“And this is Lady Arya,” Jon said, his arm around Arya’s shoulders. “The bravest wolf of us all.” Joy returned to his eyes then. “I see you still have Needle,” he said, interrupting his own introduction, nudging Arya with his hip.

It became clear then that Jon would neglect to introduce the queen officially at all. Sansa watched closely, seeing how she would respond to the unintentional insult. Where did her sweetness find its limit? And what did she do once that limit was reached?

Arya nudged him back, far more roughly. “Yes, and I know what to do with it too,” she said, grinning. “We should spar sometime,” she continued, then tossed off in the queen’s direction: “Nice to meet you." So very casual, as if she was greeting the blacksmith's wife.

That insult was wholly intentional, Arya cheerfully piling it atop of Jon’s oversight. Their sister enjoyed provoking people, and there was utility to it. How would the queen react? Sansa held her breath.

“I would like to see that,” the queen replied, as if she had not been snubbed. “If you don’t mind.”

Arya raised an eyebrow. “Do you like combat, your grace?” It was one of those sharp questions Arya asked now, where it seemed as if her judgment of you rested entirely upon your answer.

“I have seen my share of it,” the queen said, her tone serious. Neither boasting nor showing regret for anything she had done.

Arya nodded. The queen had apparently passed this test. “On your dragon,” she said and finally looked awed by this singular little queen. Of course it would be the dragons that did it. Sansa felt a little shabby beside such magnificence: the beauty and grace of a lady _and_ dominance in combat.

It didn’t seem fair, or safe, for there to be a queen like that.

She might have a heart like Margaery, generous enough in the exercise of power to make a good queen. But if she was cruel, she could outstrip even the most dangerous monarchs Westeros had known. Sansa comforted herself with Arya’s darkest plan, in case the situation proved intolerable. There was so much room between here and there, however, and much to be learned of this queen.

Jon reached out, as if to ruffle Arya’s hair, and then seemed to think better of it: his touch instead became soft, cupping of the back of her head. “I must speak to the lords first.”  

"You must be weary from your long journey," Sansa interjected, concerned about what a meeting with the lords would look like. For once, couldn't Jon just let her advise him in private before hashing everything out in the open? "There are rooms prepared, and food, if you would like to rest first."

Jon took precisely the wrong cue from her subtle message. His eyes tracked over her face; he looked concerned. "We went ahead of the queen's armies when I got your raven, it's true. But our journey is nothing compared to your trials here, and your fortitude."

At times his kindness exhausted her. It was always well meant, but sometimes so utterly out of place. If he wished to reward her for her fortitude, all he had to do was take her cue and let her speak to him in private for a moment.

He was, thankfully, sensitive enough to see that she did not warm to his words. He approached, but did not draw her into a grand embrace, merely clasped her shoulder, looked into her eyes. “We have come to keep Winterfell safe,” he said.

He had learned, since the last time, not to swear to protect her in absolute terms. Though not the precise reasons why it had offended her so, since he continued to miss the point. But that was the trouble with missing the point, wasn’t it? He didn’t even know what he had missed. Sansa raised her own hand to clasp his, reminded of the similar moment she had shared with Arya.

The queen did not react to the way he casually spoke for them as a “we,” though it was altogether inappropriate. He had bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen, agreeing to abide by her commands and serve her with his life. The only one of the two allowed to speak of what "we" would do was the queen herself.

Jon continued in that casual fashion, extending his arm to the queen. She took it and let him lead the way inside. A queen intending to cow her new subjects would not have allowed so much from Jon, their former monarch. Sansa exchanged a look with Arya and followed. If Jon insisted on doing it this way, it might not be altogether useless.

Sansa had tried to save him from the verbal lashing he was about to receive. But since he insisted on it, she would let the lords wear themselves out pestering him, then assert herself when they had vented enough to receive it. Hopefully that would occur before the queen's tolerance ran out. If all went well, they would come out of this all right and she might see something more of this queen's character. She followed with a certain confidence in her step, mentally refining arguments to soothe the bannermen's objections.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will be 1-2 weeks before I have another chapter up. These took quite a bit of time! I really wanted to get Dany's side of the story going too though. Hope you enjoy!

Winterfell’s interior was dark and warm. Comfortable, but not terribly grand. Not like Dragonstone or the pyramids of Meereen. But Daenerys saw the beauty of it. Jon had explained why his home made the perfect strategic outpost against the Night King. There were the strong towers and walls that could hold out for years against a siege. Within the walls, there were glass gardens, producing food even in the depth of winter, and deep storehouses. There was a godswood too, sacred to Jon’s faith, to sustain the spirit. The walls of the castle itself were made for the North’s harsh climate. Hot springs ran through them, making the castle like the body of a vast, living being, brooding over the people of the North. No matter how bitter the cold, Winterfell would shelter them with its heart’s blood, brought up from the depths of the earth.

Dany had never seen a stronghold that was so alive. It was not designed to parade the wasteful wealth of the powerful. Rather, it existed to uphold and sustain life. And it had done so, protecting its people for thousands of years.

Now that she had seen Winterfell, she understood Jon better. They were so alike. Modest in their appearance, but perfectly suited to survival in this harsh place. Prioritizing always the good that mattered over grandeur. Their beauty arose as a byproduct of the perfection of their form, fashioned with good intent for a wholesome purpose. And, within them both, were warm hearts that beat for their people.

Daenerys leaned closer to Jon as they walked, hope kindled in her heart. She didn’t look forward to the coming fight, but the thought of it was easier to bear now. After each battle they would return to the warmth of this good place.

Lady Arya seemed to melt into the shadows as they walked along, disappearing between one moment and the next. She too was fashioned off a similar mold as Jon: small and dark and very capable. It was as if their bodies had conserved their strength for the long winters.

They stood in contrast to the stunning Lady Stark. If Jon was the interior, the heart, then Lady Stark was one of the proud grey towers of Winterfell, standing a tall sentinel against the night. She was elegant and regal in a way Jon would never be. Grand without being effete.

The burnished flame of her hair stood out against the grey cold around them. It perfectly offset the severe lines of her black and grey clothes, her firm composure. Daenerys felt drawn in by the picture she made. There must be passion in this cool lady of the North, with hair like that. Dany smiled to remember the careful way Lady Stark had bent just enough, but given no more, her manners perfect, her eyes watchful. A shrewd she-wolf eyeing Dany up while her siblings roughhoused, their powers damped down amongst the pack.

And then there was Brandon Stark, the missing younger brother. The one who would be Lord of Winterfell, if not for his health. Tyrion had told her, shamefaced, about his family’s role in that. His elder brother had attacked a child in his own home, leaving the boy sickly and unable to walk.

It was sickening, to know how the lion of Lannister had toyed with the Starks. Cutting some down, leaving others maimed. Keeping Lady Stark alive only to dig their claws in deeper at a whim.

Daenerys could see, in the palpable sadness that surrounded Brandon Stark, the story of all the Stark dead. Their lord father and lady mother, the eldest brother who was king before Jon, and the very youngest boy. She understood what it was to stand in the world after your family had been savaged. Your world was gone, while everyone else’s remained. Jon’s sisters both had far more than she herself had known, though. A sister and two brothers, each of them with good hearts. Riches indeed.

Still, she did not envy them. She had heard enough from Tyrion of his former wife to form a rough sketch of her life. Held as a hostage and favorite victim of her family’s enemies. Forced into marriage twice over. Lady Stark knew what it meant to be truly alone and unprotected in the world. That was a hard lesson for a girl to learn, as Dany herself knew. And it was not easily forgotten.

It certainly explained Lady Stark’s wariness. Daenerys had seen the way every innocent mistake in their first meeting concerned her, making her ever more watchful. It was little matter to Dany, however. She had lived among many different peoples, had known the twisted ways of men who enslaved children. The informal manners of the North could hardly offend her.

Here, the children she had seen were busy, but sure in themselves. None of the smallfolk who had gathered to watch her arrival looked beaten down. Indeed, the ones who hovered as near as they could, to eavesdrop, were unafraid of punishment. It would be boorish, for people of power to exempt themselves from politeness while forcing everyone else to comply. But that was not the case here. Everyone seemed to partake of the same easy ways.

They were good people and they deserved a good monarch. If she could win their trust, they might be a staunch ally to her. She might rely on their forthright ways for the chance to see an honest measure of her rule in their reactions. Then she could begin to feel truly part of this place, queen in fact rather than by legacy alone.

Daenerys saw that there were three chairs at the head table when they arrived at the great hall. The arched ceilings reflected the voices of Jon’s gathered nobles, filling the space with low muttering. Lady Stark guided Jon to the middle chair and Daenerys to the one at his right. It suited her well enough; Jon could introduce her and the nature of his pledge. Tyrion told her that his father had been the crown’s Lord Paramount of the North, and Daenerys intended that position for him now. He would represent her to his own people, from this day forward.

She sat, so everyone else could sit too, and watched what might transpire.

It was not what she had hoped for, nor even what she expected. She’d hoped that they would come to look at her with some of the regard their leader did. Unlike in the South, where many thought her a conqueror, surely the North might follow its former king into peaceful submission to her reign. And she, in turn, might be generous with them. It had begun to pain her, how little chance there was here in Westeros to be generous. She’d expected, at bare minimum, that these lords would show proper respect for their king.

Instead, they acted like spoiled children, with no appreciation for what their leader did for them. They contested every decision Jon had made since leaving for Dragonstone. They contested even that he had left for Dragonstone at all! At one point, a man whose name she noted was Lord Manderly, outright said that Jon was responsible for the destruction of the Wall. This calamity was, according to him, all due to Jon’s ill-advised trip to fetch a wight. Daenerys felt a prickle of heat at the back of her neck, her anger rising.

She had lost Viserion, her beloved child, to that misadventure. And yet she would never say such a cruel thing. Not after she saw the threat. Not knowing that Jon’s every effort, including his mistakes, were guided by love for his people.

Jon handled it with good grace, outlining his rationale for each choice. He seemed to truly believe in the virtue of explaining himself to his subjects. As the conversation wore on, however, even he seemed to have too much of it. They repeated some of the same complaints several times. His answers were sound, but Daenerys didn’t think they wanted sound answers.

They wanted someone to pour out their frustrations on.

Jon’s own good nature seemed to make him believe the best of others. He expected them to be reasonable, to prioritize good over selfishness. Perhaps that was a sound method of ruling the North, in better times. She could imagine how he might inspire the best in his people, by his own example. At the moment, however, it was utterly futile. And painful to watch.

As it dragged on, Jon’s posture became increasingly hunched. Daenerys wondered then if they treated him this way because he’d been born a bastard. Perhaps they had gotten used to him not knowing how to assert authority. Perhaps they expected him to be grateful.

She saw the simplicity she had hoped for—a loyal North, with a strong Lord Paramount to carry out her will—melting away before her and wished she had taken Jon’s warnings of his lords’ unruliness more seriously. Even Tyrion had not warned her of this, an oversight she resented as she sat, her face frozen in a mask of dignity, trying to decide whether it would only undercut Jon further for her to step in.

Before a pounding headache could take up residence in her skull, Lady Stark rose out of her seat. She stood tall and erect, looking down at the room. They clearly felt for her a level of fear they did not for her brother: they fell silent before her, as her gaze swept over them.  

“ _Enough_ ,” she said, not raising her voice, but it carried throughout the room nonetheless. She clearly knew this place, every bit of it, and commanded it.

Daenerys felt the tension in her shoulders ease. She preferred to let someone who knew these men ride herd on them. If Lady Stark were not here, Dany might have had to make that her first act as their monarch. That would have left a sour taste in everyone’s mouth.

“I would remind you of your oath to your king,” Lady Stark said. “I would remind you that, if it weren’t for my brother, you would be relying on the wisdom of _Ramsay Bolton_ ,” she spat the name like a curse, “to save you.” Lord Manderly stood up, opened his mouth. Sansa raised her hand, silencing him. “The Night King is an enemy beyond our ken. He is ageless, he has plotted against the living for millennia. Do you _truly_ believe he marched for the Wall with no plan for getting through it?”

The man sat back down, shamed by that. Daenerys fought a smile. There were indeed flames in Lady Stark’s heart as well as her hair. And here was the evidence of it. It was a pleasure to watch. Dany could see at least one reason that Jon loved the North so much, despite the company of his unruly lords. Lady Arya, too, seemed an impressive woman. And the Lady Mormont, so very young and yet so commanding, had also spoken sense, even as she called Jon to account.

Perhaps the virtues of the North resided largely in their women. It would not be so different from most places, in that.

“Jon alone saw the threat,” Lady Stark continued. She brought her hand up to Jon’s back. “He alone prepared to protect us. He brought us a queen with armies and dragons, just as the dead marched on us. And if we survive the long night it will be because of him.” She looked hard over them, righteous anger in every line of her body.

This part of Lady Stark’s argument was what Jon himself had been telling them. The difference was that, when he said it, he was modest. He did not aggrandize himself. Or seek to shame them with their own foolishness. He spoke plainly, clearly believing their better natures would win out.

Lady Stark turned his sensible words into the sharp slap these men needed.

As rough as she was with them, she was gentle with her brother. From her position sitting off to the side Daenerys could see that Lady Stark’s thumb was moving in comforting circles against his back. His posture straightened under the touch, the lines of tension in his face easing. He seemed to grow stronger under her regard.

Was this the key to ruling the North then, balancing the plainspoken decency of the one with the sharpness of the other?

“I have known Cersei Lannister,” Lady Stark continued. “I do not trust her, nor should any of you. She would watch us die, as she watched the people of King’s Landing burn. I have only just met Queen Daenerys, but I trust my brother’s choice. I know that he has done everything in his power to protect us. I am proud to welcome Queen Daenerys.” Here she sat respectfully, her hand subtly guiding Jon to sit as well, and looked over at Daenerys.

It was a good bit of theater to cap off Lady Stark’s success and Daenerys would not waste it. She stood to her full height. They would not find it easy to bow her shoulders. “Thank you, Lady Stark,” she said, looking over to meet her eyes. “I am proud to stand with your house in this dark hour.” She meant every word of it, and it would tie her to a lady these men respected.

Lady Stark inclined her head. “You do us a great honor, your grace.”

“You king has sworn an oath to me,” Daenerys said to the room and waited as a grumble went through them, refusing to either back down or try react as if it upset her. When they were quiet again, she continued: “As my Lord Paramount, Jon Snow is the commander of my armies in the North. We have, together, agreed upon a plan of battle for your protection. He will instruct you in it on the morrow, so that our attack might begin as soon as my ships arrive. Though I have brought armies and dragons to protect the people of my realm, every man,” she cast a look at the young Lady Mormont, and added, “and woman must do their part, if our plan is to succeed.”

There was a pause, as the lords seemed to gather themselves to respond. Lady Stark cut into it, standing once again. “Thank you, your grace. We will gather again on the morrow.” She stepped back from her chair and moved to stand beside Daenerys, “I pray you forgive us for keeping you so long; you must be weary from your journey. I will show you to your rooms now.”

Lady Stark's arm was extended, and there was a gleam in her eye. Daenerys took it and was reminded of Missandei, sharing a secret with this cool, sharp lady of the North. Holding hands, making the world bend before those they least expected. “Thank you, Lady Stark,” she said.

Jon completed the picture, coming to offer his arm at her left. Daenerys took it, pride swelling in her chest. She stood with Winterfell’s children, borne of its dark, warm heart, and its grand towers. It would not be so difficult to manage this part of her domain, if she had their support. Flanked thus by the best of the North, she left the great hall, her head held high.

-

 

“Jon,” Daenerys said, squeezing his arm, “I regret I did not believe you about your lords before. They are--” aware of Lady Stark’s delicate manners, she chose her words with more care than if she had been speaking to Jon alone, “most passionate.”

“Were they on fire,” Lady Stark observed coolly, “they would complain about the bucket you used to put it out.”

Daenerys laughed, startled by her sharp tongue. “Am I the bucket, Lady Stark?” she probed and then continued, jesting to soften it. “Something very fine, I hope. Gold and jewel encrusted, perhaps.” The North was in peril from ice, not fire. But the observation was apt. However, it suggested a role for Daenerys that disquieted her. She wondered what the remark revealed of the lady’s deeper thinking.

“Silver, surely,” Lady Stark said, sweeping her gaze over Daenerys’ hair with appreciative deliberation, and then meeting her eyes, “inlaid with amethyst.”

Daenerys felt a blush heat her cheeks. This was more than a compliment; Lady Stark was still sizing her up in her courtly way. It was more graceful than the blunt rudeness of the Northern lords. And more stimulating.

Dany was not unequipped for such games. “Your sister could persuade the very tides to change, I think,” she said, speaking to Jon but keeping her eyes locked with Lady Stark’s, “given words enough and time.”

She was satisfied when it was Lady Stark who looked away first.

“Only if they must change,” Jon said, warmly, “for some good purpose. She has not yet convinced me of something I came to regret.” He paused a moment and then continued, with aching sincerity: “Though I have often regretted the times I did not heed your counsel, Sansa,” he said, his gaze on his sister, his words for her alone. “You were right. They grew restive in my absence.”

For the first time since they met, Daenerys saw Lady Stark soften. “You have nothing to regret,” she said. “I was right about the lords, but wrong about the coming threat. If you’d heeded my words, you would have stayed and we would be doomed. I’m glad you didn’t.”

The final signs of tension eased from his face and he smiled. This smile was pure in a way Daenerys had not seen from him before, and she treasured it. “Thank you, Sansa.”

There was much to marvel at in Jon. He was the way he expected his lords to be: reasonable, decent, quick to see and accept the truth when it was presented to him. He cared more about finding the right path, and walking it, than his pride. The most important thing was protecting his people. He as singular, in her experience, and precious to her for that.

His goodness could be a fault, too. He failed to comprehend the wickedness in others and compensate for it. He kept thinking he just had to explain himself better, make the truth clearer. It was a fine fault to have, as long as there were people around him with a clear eye for human nature.

When they arrived, Daenerys found the rooms comfortable, if small compared to her usual accommodations. There was warm water for her to refresh herself and a meal brought in just as they arrived, as if Lady Stark had sent some unseen cue as they made their way here. Perhaps she had. Once Lady Stark acquainted her with her accommodations, she took Jon’s arm, clearly expecting to leave.

Jon hovered, for his part clearly torn. “Is there anything else you need, your grace?” he asked.

He’d had to wake her during the dark pre-dawn hours and press her to come at once, to protect his people. Now that they were safe, he turned his concern to her. In the time they had spent together, he’d become very attentive to her moods.

It touched her, but she found amusement in this scene too: for all that she was usually so composed, annoyance pinched Lady Stark’s face. And who could blame her? The poor woman had been trying to have a word alone with Jon since they arrived. But she had not been speaking in terms he recognized, and so the message went awry. How different two siblings could be! Lady Stark like a finely wrought clockwork, forever whirring in her secret ways, and Jon like a bright, true sword.

In gratitude for the way Lady Stark had made Dany’s meeting with the lords easier, she stepped in to ease this minor trouble. “Yes, thank you. I am glad for the chance to rest,” she said, pointedly, looking between the two of them. They left then, together, Lady Stark leading the way.

Daenerys did find relief in privacy. Her head ached, from the long journey and the social jousting. She washed her hands and face with the warm water, sighing. It had not gone badly, but it had been a long day. She had received Jon’s awful news while she was still in her night clothes, her mind foggy from sleep.

He’d pressed his sister’s letter into her hands, naked terror in his eyes. The beautiful handwriting told a chilling tale, of the horror the Night King had made of her beloved Viserion, and of the threat that Winterfell now faced.

Daenerys had handed the letter back to him and watched him clutch it tightly. “Please,” he said, “we must fly to them at once.” His thumb moved tenderly over the lovely handwriting, as if it might be the last he saw of his sister. “And pray we are not too late.”

If her dragons were flame made flesh, then Jon Snow seemed to her to be love of his people made flesh. He had even died for them and returned to continue leading them. Such was the power of his heart. But if they were lost, surely his mind would break.

“We leave at once,” she had said, putting aside her own grief.

Throughout their hurried journey, Daenerys had shared Jon’s fear that they would find his home destroyed, his people dead. She felt the tension of his body against her back, and asked his gods to be kind. Why bring him back, if only to destroy his people and him along with them? When they caught sight of Winterfell, he let out a cry of joy, pointing out the stately towers and solid walls. Daenerys knew relief then, circling lazily overhead, admiring it as she found a place to land at a respectful distance.

Jon had not been wrong to be concerned for her; her first thought, now that her fear for the North abated, was of Viserion. She would have to face him in battle, to kill the twisted thing the Night King had made him. A creature of air and dancing flame held captive in ice. Daenerys curled up on the bed and let her tears fall then. She wept and promised Viserion’s soul that she would build him a grand funeral pyre. He would be laid to rest in its flames. Her dear child would never be cold again.

She slept for a time, exhaustion taking her. When she awoke, the sought the food that had been brought for her. The lamb stew had gone cold; she set it aside. There were dried fruits, apricots and cherries, and an array of cheeses. She tore a piece from the dark bread and idly sampled one. It was delicious; savory, with a hint of nuttiness that paired well with the dried cherries. She tried each in turn, fascinated by the variety.

It was a good way to store food for winter. The Northerners must have become experts in making it as enjoyable as possible to have cheese as a staple. There was a jug of water and a large mug of something fermented. When Dany sampled it, it tasted like pears, crisp and flavorful. She enjoyed herself, combining the different tastes as she reflected on the day.

Lady Stark had a deft hand with her people and she had supported Dany’s claim before the lords, but it could not be so easy. It was now clearer to Daenerys how it had been between Lady Stark and her brother. She had acted more in the role of a lady wife than a sister, sharing the burdens of leadership. Dany knew that unmarried noblemen often did that, with mothers and sisters, though she had no experience with it. Viserys had never sought to share power with her, or teach her its ways, for all that he had intended to marry her.

It was another mark of his fear and weakness, to want a weak and timid wife. Jon leaned strongly in the other direction, apparently unperturbed by Lady Stark’s influence. But Daenerys saw reason for concern. A young woman accustomed to sharing power with a king might find disappointment in his returning a mere Lord Paramount, even with armies and dragons.

And then there was the topic of marriage, which Daenerys had been mulling for some days. Given the state of the other great houses, if Jon could be legitimized, he might suit. The woman in her desired it, and it need not be a problem for the queen. The situation was delicate, though. She would need to speak to her advisors, and learn more of the Starks. Why had his people made him king before legitimizing him? His family loved him, clearly. It should have been done long ago. Was there some longstanding feeling against it that she would have to navigate?

Daenerys wished she could have overheard the conversation between Jon and Lady Stark. They were honest enough, even in her presence. And they had been working together for some time now, sharing leadership. Their conversation in private must be something to see. Whatever the case, the outcome would make itself clear soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to notyourfuckingalatea for awesome feedback and tolerating my OT3 obsession. This one's longer than the previous two chapters, with both Sansa and Dany pov sections and the fic finally earns its Mature rating. :) The next update will take a bit longer, since I'm swamped with work. Hope you enjoy! And, please, let me know what you think!

Sansa’s heart raced as she recalled how smoothly she and the queen had worked together, handling the lords. She had followed plans before, guided by the creeping persuasion of Littlefinger, the blunt force of the Lannisters. But she’d never moved like that. Not with someone who could make each step lighter, each turn more deft. It was thrilling. Like taking the hand of a gifted dancer after a lifetime of bruised toes. They were graceful enough together to make it seem effortless, and they’d left a roomful of hardened Northern lords agog behind them.

Queen Daenerys had handled Sansa’s efforts on her behalf with wisdom. She used the opportunity to shore up her own influence and show her support for Sansa’s position. That meant she was skilled and thoughtful. It did not reveal her deeper motives, however. Sansa had been giving her something she wanted. The true test of the queen’s character would come when Sansa wanted something of her.

Which brought her to the subject of marriage.

If Daenerys Targaryen was everything she seemed, Sansa wanted her for House Stark. She didn’t understand why Jon hadn’t brought home a wife as well as a queen. Had he been rejected or simply failed to ask? She suspected the latter. He and Ser Davos were low born military men, not trained in these matters.

It had been among Sansa’s chief lessons. Studying the great families and learning how to stitch them together. Make them stronger. The queen had no living family or connections among the nobles of Westeros; the Starks had plenty of both. She seemed to like Jon and he was clearly enamored of her. What possible impediment could there be?

If the queen dealt with them as she had today, both houses could be made strong by the union. If not, some unknown influence would come in. A man who might move her against them. Or poison her reign. There were not many men who would be content as king consort to a ruling queen. Westeros had never known such a thing before.

It would be better if Jon had not asked than if he’d been refused. A refusal would make it insulting to broach the topic directly. If Jon had failed to ask, however, Sansa would have the right to raise it on his behalf, as Lady Stark, the female head of his family. Their negotiating position was weaker, since he had already bent the knee. But a good and wise queen would not reject her out of hand. She would see the justice in Sansa’s proposal, give it a fair hearing.

“Where is Lord Baelish?” Jon asked, interrupting her thoughts. He sounded worried. “I’m relieved to be free of him. But he’s sure to be plotting trouble, wherever he is.” He might miss the subtleties, but he had a good eye for peoples’ hearts. He drew good people to him and knew how to see evil for what it was, when confronted with it.

“Lord Baelish is the problem of the gods now,” Sansa said, her pleasure in his ruination still fresh, “if any will have him.” She hoped his soul wandered without a home for eternity. Cold, alone, frightened, and helpless. His stomach all twisted into knots. The way he had made her feel, with his betrayals and cruelties. The creeping poison of his words, the seamy grasping of his forced kiss. She gripped Jon’s arm, taking a deep breath through her nose. She was not that girl anymore. She had everything she’d thought lost. Love and family. And it was all safer, because Littlefinger was gone. “He was made to answer for his crimes,” she said. She could relive Arya slicing his throat ten thousand times in her mind and never tire of it.

“And you were satisfied with the outcome?” he asked. There was no judgment in his tone. He just wanted to be sure. He always respected her right to determine the fate of those who had harmed her. Most men would see injuries done to her as an insult to their own honor, rather than a matter of her rights. He understood her better than that.

“Quite satisfied.”

His warm, calloused fingers squeezed her hand gently. “Good,” he said. “You’ve freed us all from a dangerous man.”

When they reached her chambers, Sansa opened the door, looking forward to what would come next. As they stepped in, Jon and Ghost caught sight of each other. The joy in them both was something to behold. Jon went to his knees, cuddling the direwolf as Ghost nuzzled him, licking his face. They seemed to want to be as close as they possibly could, cover each other with pets and kisses, to make up for their long separation.

Ghost had been her greatest comfort in Jon’s absence. She would spend time every night before bed petting his silky soft fur. Sometimes she would sing or tell him about her day. When she went to bed he would lie down near her feet and heave a heavy sigh and she would think _I know. I miss him too._ The direwolf understood: a pack should remain together. Separation meant death. Hadn’t their tragedies proved that?

And yet, if Jon had stayed, they would be facing the Night King with a force of less than ten thousand men. They would stand together and they would die together. The thought chilled her; like Littlefinger’s final scheme, it one more time they had all nearly slipped from a sheer drop.

Sansa put such thoughts aside and let herself enjoy the moment. Jon and Ghost made their way to the rug before her hearth, where Jon was lavishing his direwolf with affection, whispering things to him. Sansa caught phrase here and there. “Knew you would keep them safe,” she heard him say, as he rubbed Ghost’s belly. They made quite the picture. The large, snow white direwolf and his raven-haired master, both handsome, but a study in contrast. The firelight bathed them in an orange glow and Sansa felt her heart ache at the sight.

She wished they could just stay like this.

After a while, she turned to the food she’d had sent up after the meeting with the lords. There was lamb stew, rich with hearty stock and the sweetness of the carrots and onions. Soon there would be no meat left. She enjoyed it while she could.

“Your food is getting cold,” she said, when she finally found the heart to interrupt their raptures.

Both heads turned to her, Jon’s soft brown eyes and Ghost’s mysterious red looking at her. Jon dragged himself up and over to the other chair. “Aye, thank you, we had no time to eat before we left—“ he dipped a piece of bread in the stew, and took an unmannerly large bite of it, closing his eyes in pleasure.

“You could have eaten before speaking to the lords,” she said, “when I offered. I would have warned you about their mood too.” She felt compelled to mention it. Maybe if she told him what she had intended, he would realize when she was trying to help. Sometimes he did, but she could never be sure what he’d make of it. She often wished she could just draw him a map, like the large ones they spread out across a war table. She could convey much with those little stones they moved around to represent the combatants and their numbers. Maybe he would understand her better if she could speak in his own terms.

She’d just need to come up with clever military names for things, like ‘pincer move.’ What would her and Queen Daenerys’ strategy today be termed, a two lady flanking attack?

“Even if you warned me, I’d have done the same,” he said, with stolid certainty. “I owed them an explanation.”

“They want good theater,” she said, “not explanations.  That’s what your queen and I gave them. Did you not notice?”

“I noticed that you explained well,” he said, “in your theater. I even noticed some of my own arguments.” He looked closely at her. “Do you believe everything you said?”

Of all the times for him to show political insight! At least there was no condemnation in it, not like the times he’d been wary of her for not sharing his forthright nature. “I want to. But you can’t ask me to wholly trust a woman I’ve just met.”

He nodded. “I know it was sudden, my bending the knee.”

“’Sudden’ is hardly the word for it! A kingdom gone, between one raven and the next—“ she caught herself. Hectoring him over that would not get her the information she needed. “And how did you come to bend the knee? You left that out of your account.”

He made a face. “At the time, I couldn’t, physically—“ he sounded rueful, but it looked like the memory was a fond one, “she had to take my word for it.”

“Why couldn’t you?” She didn’t like the sound of that.

“It was after my damned fool wight hunt,” he said, and rubbed the back of his neck, ducking his head. “Daenerys saved us, but I was very sick.” Sansa took note of the fact that the queen was ‘Daenerys’ in private. “When I first awoke, we talked, sharing our disappoint and grief. The dragons are like children to her,” he explained, earnestly, looking up to meet her eyes. “And she lost one saving us. Yet she promised me the two that remained and her armies too.” The firelight was reflected in his eyes, so they seemed twin flames. “I knew in that moment that I would not find a better queen, not if I spent a thousand years searching for her."

Sansa nodded, but she was not pleased by this news. What _precisely_ was this one in a thousand years queen doing hovering over the sickbeds of injured men, pouring out her griefs to them? Pressuring Jon to swear an oath without counsel.

She fought unease at her own recent generosity to the queen; should she have been firmer? Someone had to be. She was not happy at the thought of Jon lying injured, his kingdom smoothly slipped from his weakened grasp. Not at all.

It smacked of manipulation, the queen finally securing what she had held Jon hostage for a month to receive. That alone did not condemn her; any able monarch had to be willing to see an opportunity and take it. But now that there was someone here to take Jon’s part, a good queen must countenance it.

Though, knowing Jon, it was not entirely the queen’s fault that he hadn’t argued for better terms.

“Did you bring up marriage at all?” she asked.

He looked at her as if she’d suggested the queen marry Ghost. “How could I?” he asked. “She can’t marry me.” He said it with such certainty, as if it was a simple fact.

Sansa gripped the wooden arms of her chair, containing her frustration. “Why _not_?”

“I wouldn’t be suitable—“

Sansa bridled at that, interrupting. “You are—were—a king! And she’s a queen. There is nothing more suitable.” The lords would have congratulated him on the match, instead of lashing at him. And the queen’s advisors would have good reason to be pleased. It was the best possible solution for all concerned.

“Sansa,” he said, as if she was the one missing the point, “I’m a Snow.”

At times Sansa caught a glimpse of how deeply that had wounded him and felt shame for her part in it. She had been a child and her childish slights were the least of his troubles, but still. “You are the eldest son of Eddard Stark,” she said, absolute conviction in her tone, “and the chosen king of the North. She is _not_ above your reach. It would be the work of a moment for her to legitimize you.”

Rather than being encouraged by her words, he looked hurt. “You would have me steal your birthright?” he asked. “You are the Lady of Winterfell. And Bran…” his voice became quiet, rougher, “he may yet be its Lord one day.”

“He doesn’t want it,” Sansa said.

“His health could improve,” Jon replied, doggedly. As if Bran needed to be defended from her harsh judgment.

Sansa remembered then the day Jon left to serve at the Wall, the way Bran had looked the last time he could have seen their brother. His small body had lain broken, spine twisted and legs unmoving. Mother had sat with him for days, hovering like a mournful spirit, her eyes vacant.

Jon must picture their brother that way still. No wonder it sickened him to think of taking his rightful place. Gods, she hadn’t considered this when she and Arya agreed to lie and keep Bran away from the queen. “He’s not so very ill, Jon,” she hastened to assure him. “Not like he was when last you saw him. He just gets tired.” She sought a good explanation, one that would have enough of the truth to it. “He likes to warg and has grown quite good at it. I think it gives him the freedom his legs cannot.” There, that was enough. “He’s well enough to speak for himself and he has told me that he doesn’t want to be lord here.”

“I would speak to him myself,” Jon said. “And even if I do, what about you? You’re the Lady of Winterfell. But if I were lord and I should marry—“

“Don’t use me as an excuse,” Sansa said, annoyed. She was sympathetic to his feelings about Bran, but this objection made no sense. “If you married the queen, what use would she have for my title?”

Jon laced his hands together, looking uneasy. “I can’t marry her,” he repeated.

There was something more to this. “Do you not wish to?” she asked. She could scarcely believe it. He looked at the Targaryen queen like she hung the moon and stars. But, having been forced into marriage herself, she wouldn’t wish to do such a thing to him.

“I can’t follow my own wishes,” he said, the very picture of self-denying duty. That nettled her. Was he being obtuse on purpose?

“I’m not asking you to! Don’t you—” Sansa stopped herself, trying to understand. Perhaps he truly didn’t know. “Marriage is a service to your family,” she said, explaining a lesson she had been taught so early that she couldn’t pinpoint the moment she had first been told. “The better the match the greater the service.” She could see that she had his attention, so she continued: “I wish you to be happy as well, but I am not prying into your life for the pleasure of it. I am Lady Stark, as you keep insisting. And the fate of our house, and indeed the Seven Kingdoms, could be improved by this match.”

Unlike her, he’d been raised to believe that the best service he could do his family was remove himself from it. Her mother was not cruel, but she acted as if he did not exist and anything he did to remind her that he did was a personal insult. Sansa had followed Mother’s example in this, as she did in all things. Honorable as he was, he took the only option available to him, swearing his life to service at the Wall, no longer a threat to the line of inheritance.

She had helped convince a boy that he didn’t belong and she hadn’t even cared. Of all the things she had felt, a lifetime ago, this was the most painful to recollect. She had tossed family aside as if he was nothing. He might have died so easily. Then, after years of people torturing her for naught but their own amusement, she met him again. And the one person who had the most right to hate her forgave her instead. She had received many stunning blows over the years. Each time, after the shock, came fear and pain. She felt herself crumbling away and knew that, one day, there would be nothing left. When he embraced her and forgave her, the goodness of it had stunned her too. But instead of fear and pain, after the shock there was just the warmth of his strong arms around her, holding her safe.

With his forgiveness, she gladly left that past behind. She took every opportunity to let him know how she valued him. But it seemed it was not so easy for him to unlearn a lifetime of bad lessons.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I am not the right man.”

“Why not?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked tired, dark smudges under his eyes. “You can change my name,” he said, “but you can’t change my nature. If we survive the battle against the Night King,” he said, gesturing as if there was a war map laid out on the floor, moving from the North to the South, “then Daenerys will march to take the Iron Throne. I will fight for her. But once the battle is over, she needs a husband who can help her hold power. I have been to King’s Landing recently –“ his lips twisted, “I did not acquit myself well there, Sansa.”

Sansa frowned. “How so?”

“Isn’t it enough to know that I am not the husband she needs?” he asked. “Must you hear the whole humiliating tale?”

“I think so,” she said, regretting it but not enough to stop before she learned what she needed to know. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you are the best judge of your worth in this area.” She tried to be encouraging. “It may not be as bad as you think.”

His lips formed a firm, miserable line. “All right, if nothing else will convince you,” he said. “It all comes back to the damned wight hunt.” He stared into the fire, as if it would be easier to discuss if he didn’t have to see her reaction. “Good men died following me, Sansa. I’m responsible for that. And for Daenerys’ lost child. We did fetch our wight. But then I was standing,” he spread his hands, to evoke the scene, “in the grand Dragonpit, before Queen Cersei herself. We showed her the wight.  I explained the threat. She was moved to offer a deal… her support in the war against the Night King in return for my neutrality in the war over the throne, and I couldn’t take it. One half-truth would have done it. But I _couldn’t_.” He sighed. “All that we lost might have been for naught if Lord Tyrion hadn’t spoken to her.” He finally met her eyes, to drive home the point. “I can fight for Daenerys on the field of battle, but I failed her in that moment. She was kind about it. She is always kind. But I failed her.” He looked devastated by the thought.

“That’s absurd,” Sansa snapped, not holding back. “Cersei Lannister has been learning the game since she was a child. She is canny, vicious, and cruel. Being outmatched by her is no reason for shame, Jon. That’s what advisors are for. That’s why Lord Tyrion was there.”

Sansa thought he was being ridiculous. He’d been knocked in the dirt by Cersei in front of his pretty little queen and it stung his pride. What kind of reason was that to forgo marriage? Sansa was glad that he cared for the woman she wanted him to marry. Truly, she was. It was rare, for the wise choice to also be a love match. But he was acting like a boy. It wasn’t like him. Perhaps this was another byproduct of his upbringing. Perhaps swearing to celibacy had held these feelings suspended. He had laid his sixteen-year-old heart to rest when he joined the Night's Watch and now it was waking up again, unchanged by time.

“It wasn’t just her,” Jon insisted. “The people of the South are all so different. In King’s Landing it seems like they never open their mouths but to lie.” It clearly pained him to contemplate that. He cared so much about doing the right thing and the only way he knew to do it was to take the most honest course. “How can you build a future like that?” he asked her.

How little he had seen of the world, she thought with a measure of regret. He’d gone from their father’s house to the Wall and only just ventured South for the first time. In everything that was required of him, he acquitted himself ably. But expecting him to be able to handle Cersei Lannister was like putting a longsword in Sansa’s hand and expecting her to defend herself. It was too much. She wouldn’t even be able to lift it.

“They’re not all evil,” Sansa said. “You mustn’t think that. Some of them want to do good.”

“I struggle to see how,” he admitted.

“Queen Margaery, had she lived—“ Sansa breathed around the sudden sadness that came upon her and continued, “might have done much for the people. She was not cruel. She used her courtly ways to make everything better. More beautiful.”

“If you say it is so, I believe you,” he said. “But I cannot understand it.”

“You wouldn’t have to – you’d have the queen to follow and advisors to help you.”

He blinked at her slowly, as if struggling to focus. Then he yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand and looking so young she felt bad for driving at him so over this. “Can’t we just fight one battle at a time, Sansa?” he asked, sounding weary.

 _Don’t fight in the North or the South_ , Sansa thought. _Fight every battle, everywhere, always in your mind._ The memory of Littlefinger was ugly, like a stain that would always be within her, but she didn’t push his words away. She would not reject any source of knowledge, even if she could almost taste the mint on his greedy lips when she recalled him. The way he’d sworn his twisted love before Arya slit his throat.

It was a valuable lesson and she would remember it. If she forgot, then nothing good would have come of what Littlefinger did to her, and she refused to accept that. But she wouldn’t share it. Even if Jon could hear it, she rather thought he’d reached his limit. Asking him to live as Littlefinger had advised her to, thinking of everyone as an enemy, would be asking him to break something in his heart that she valued far more than political savvy. Besides, there was no guarantee such cynicism would bring wisdom rather than despair for him. “Very well,” she said. “The matter can keep for the night.”

He let out a breath. “Good,” he said. “I’ve missed you.” He looked over her face, as he had when he first arrived, as if searching for something. “It wouldn’t be so bad,” he said, “to keep me around Winterfell after the war, would it?” He tried to put a note of humor into the question, but she could tell that he was truly asking. He had noticed her cold welcome and worried over it. And then she’d gotten him alone only to interrogate him.

Sansa took her own deep breath and let it out, trying to calm herself. She would fight their battles in her mind. It must be her and Arya for that job, because they could think like that and not lose themselves. But it could be too much, even for them. In this, Littlefinger might serve as a warning: he had fed his mind and starved his heart until it was a rabid animal, vicious and hungry. Never satisfied. She would fight in her mind, but she would let herself rest too, when it was safe. Or risk breaking something precious within her own heart.

Sansa extended her hand to him. He took it at once, with gladness, his thumb brushing over her fingers tenderly. “I missed you terribly,” she confessed, allowing herself to be loved. He did have such a talent for it. “I kept thinking that, if you were only here, everything would be—“ safer, kinder, more beautiful, “better.”

“And I wished you were with me at Dragonstone,” he said, “a hundred times or more.” He smiled. “I’m sure you and the queen would have come to terms much sooner…” he had that fond, rueful look again, as when he recalled bending the knee, “we misunderstood each other for weeks.”

“And when understanding came,” she said, putting the pieces together, “it was all the more intense.” It most have come all at once. Like the sudden spark Sansa felt meeting him again at Castle Black. Recognizing the instant she met his eyes that, though she had barely known him before, they were of one mind. They wanted to stop being so cold, so alone, so afraid. The long delay meant neither took it for granted, to have found something so precious.

“Yes. It was as if—“ His reply was interrupted by another yawn which he covered with his other hand, looking embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said, chuckling. “We set out while it was still dark.”

Sansa squeezed his hand. “You should rest,” she said. “I warn you, Arya will not give you an easy match tomorrow.”

“Indeed?” he asked, a smile at the corner of his lips. “Tell me, what do I face?”

“She fought Lady Brienne to a draw,” Sansa bragged, pride swelling in her chest. It had been an impressive sight. Now that they had made peace, it was nice to get to boast about her little sister.

Jon’s eyes widened. “A draw,” he said, all astonishment. “Against Lady Brienne. With Arya’s reach… Are you sure? Did you see it?”

“I did,” Sansa said, offended that he’d doubt her.

“But how?”

“Arya is _very_ quick,” Sansa said, but she was at a loss to explain further. It had seemed at times that she couldn’t even track their movements. “That is the most I understood of it.”

“How did she become so skilled?” he asked, and she saw him putting the worrying pieces together. To become so good, Arya must have faced great danger.

“She learned to survive,” Sansa said, “like we all did.” She would not tell him anything more. Those were Arya’s secrets, not hers. “And now she’s home.”

“You two get along better now,” he observed, looking pleased.

“We had to work at it,” Sansa said, carefully, “but we found our way.” She would never tell him what transpired between them. At best, it would only hurt him. At worst he’d find a way to blame himself for not being here to intercede between them.

“I’m glad,” he said. “You should come watch tomorrow, along with the queen.”

“But what if it’s humiliating?” she teased. She was beginning to find his delicate pride around the queen endearing. But that did not mean she wouldn’t joke about it.

He groaned, and then shook his head. “It’s not like that. Sparring makes you better,” he explained, “win or lose. A loss in the political realm is just… a loss.” He looked sad then, so burdened by a mistake that Sansa didn’t even count as a failure.

As much as she would like to sit with him a while longer, she wouldn’t keep him in this state. Sansa stood, drawing him to his feet with their linked hands. “Go,” she said. “You need sleep. Take Ghost with you.” The direwolf was curled up in front of her hearth, looking quite content. He could cuddle up with Jon and make him feel better the way Ghost comforted her.

“Not tonight,” Jon said. He brought his hands up to frame her face with his warm, calloused palms, took a long moment to look over her face, as if he was memorizing her. She felt the need to return the contact and brought her own hands up to touch his wrists. His expression softened. “I’ll sleep better knowing he keeps you safe,” he said, and went up on tiptoe to press a kiss to her forehead. “Goodnight, Sansa.”

-

A pale young maid with work-reddened hands came to help Daenerys change out of her clothes. She brought a jug of water with her and left with the meal tray. Daenerys preferred to manage her own hair here, where they did not know Dothraki braids. She longed for Missandei, then, to chat over the day's events as they cared of each other. It was habit of so many years now, morning and evening, that their hands moved deftly, with nary a mistaken tug or strand out of place when they were finished.

Daenerys might have brought her, but she didn't wish to deprive Missandei and Grey Worm of their time together on the ship, before the battle. This one would be far more dangerous than any they had known, and in a climate outside the experience of the Unsullied. She did not like the things she had heard from Jon, about the dangers of frostbite and how quickly the cold could sap a man's strength. Their enemies had the advantage in this. Cold did no harm to the dead.

If they lost, the world would turn to ice and there would be no one left to feel it. No one left to care.

A knock at her door interrupted these dark thoughts. She opened it and saw what she hoped and feared to see: Jon Snow, looking uncertain at her doorstep. She let him in, but put some distance between them, sitting on the low couch as he bolted the door.

"Is this wise?" she asked. Rumors must move quickly in this place.

"I don't know," he said. His furs were gone and he wore the leather-covered mail she had learned the trick of removing recently.

"Well," she said, hands tense against her knees, "you are honest."

He bowed his head, looked up at her from under his pretty lashes. "I should go," he said, glancing at the door and then back. Clearly he didn't want to.

She found she didn't want him to either. Reclining against the arm of the couch, she said: "The damage is done." That wasn't strictly true: a short visit could be explained much more easily than an entire night spent together. But she was not the honest one here.

He came to her then. Together they removed his armor up over his head, set it aside. She tugged him down to sit, so she could climb into his lap. She leaned back against his warm body and felt his arms come around her waist. He was passionate, when the time was right, but easy about getting there. As happy to cuddle her as he was to lie between her thighs. Once again, she marveled at him.

“Sansa likes you,” he said, brushing a lock of her hair aside, stroking it between his fingers with a look of awe.

Daenerys laughed. “There’s a bit more to it than that, I think.” If she was right, his sister was still sizing her up. But she would do it discreetly, and Dany had no reason to begrudge her. It spoke well of her. If her trust could be secured, it was the kind to last.

“Aye, there often is,” he said, “with Sansa.” For all that he loved her, he must also struggle to understand her. But, then, love did not require perfect understanding. Thankfully, otherwise there would be even less of it in the world.

“Tell me something more of your sisters,” Daenerys said. She wanted to know more, to understand this family she considered making her own. And to understand the man she would make her husband. Not only for the insight but because she found she wanted to know everything about him.

“What would you like to hear?” he asked.

“A happy memory,” she said, “from your childhood here at Winterfell?”

His hand idly stroked her back as he thought and then his expression changed, brightening. “All right,” he said. “There’s one I think you’ll like. When she was just turned five Arya decided that I was her dragon,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “She’d learned of your lady ancestors and was very impressed. For months after she rode on my back every chance she got, all around Winterfell.” He rubbed at his side, in recollection of a far more pleasant injury than the scars that marred his chest. “She used to kick too!” he laughed.

“Such tyranny,” Daenerys joked, and there was deep longing in her heart. To have known childhood affection like that, with even one sibling. She was sure his life had been painful, complicated. But just this one memory was, to her, like a first glimpse of summer to a child born in winter. But their summer was gone now, before she had even known them. Still, it was sweet to know what it was like, between siblings who loved each other. Though, he seemed to have put up with a lot. “You were a very tolerant brother, I think,” she said.

He shook his head. “No, I—“ his bit his lip, his eyes softening. “In truth, I longed for it. I’d never felt so much like I belonged as when she’d demand my presence. No one else would do, to play dragon,” he said, and she could see that he was still moved by the memory, “not even Robb, the eldest.” The eldest, and trueborn. The heir and king before him. It would be hard to live in that shadow, even as a trueborn brother. “She used to fall asleep sometimes,” his grin had softened into a tender smile, “and begin to slip off my back before I caught her.”

It was nice to know that a little girl had remembered her ancestors fondly. And taken strength from their example, as lady warriors. Perhaps there were other little girls who did the same. Dany hoped so. It felt like a good sign too, that Lady Arya had such regard for Targaryen women a lifetime before they’d ever met – perhaps she would like being sisters with the last Targaryen. A ride upon Drogon might do wonders to win her affection.

“And what of Lady Stark?” she asked. “Tell me of her.” How might her affection be won?

Daenerys hadn’t been probing for a sore spot but she could tell that she’d hit one. His expression closed and he took much longer to find something to say this time.

“She’s always been good with her needle,” he said, finally, having found a truth he was willing to give her. “She made me the fur cloak I wear, back when we were coming to fight for our home.” His expression softened and he met Dany’s eyes. “It’s like the one our father wore,” he said, then he smiled. “She made herself a matching dress,” he enthused, gesturing at his own chest, “with a wolf, just here. It’s very pretty.” He was proud of her. She too, by dressing him as their father, must be proud of him. But there was something different here than with Lady Arya. The pure, childish joy they’d shared as siblings did not seem to be part of his bond with Lady Stark. He hadn’t been able to dredge up a single positive childhood memory they shared.

It worried Dany; if this was part of why he’d never been legitimized then it might be troublesome for her. If Lady Stark was against it, she would not be an easy woman to get around. Though how she could be against it confounded Dany. They clearly loved each other.

“What about your brother?” Jon asked.

It was Dany’s turn to feel her expression close, her mind at a loss for anything good to say. Even the thought of dredging some of those memories up hurt. She stared at him a long moment, considering. He was so safe and good. Even during the short time they’d known each other, she could see that. Nothing she had ever done or said to him had made him think less of her.

She turned on her side, curled up against his chest, and spoke the truth. “My brother was cruel,” she said, “and weak. I won’t pretend otherwise, for all that he was my only family.”

Jon stiffened against her and then seemed to envelope her with warmth, his left arm embracing her, his right hand cupping her head tenderly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You deserved better than that.”

She thought of telling him that she could have better, if he was willing to give her his hand. He might share his love and his family with her too. But she could tell there was thorny terrain she would have to navigate. It was late and she just wanted to enjoy him, not bring up painful topics.

Conversation could wait. She turned from words to deeds, stroking her hand over the soft material of his undershirt, pressing her cheek against his chest. He read her mood easily and went with it, returning the affection of her touch, tracing soothing maps over her skin, from her shoulders to her low back. Jon reminded her of her dragons, when they were still small enough for their heads to rest upon her lap. The hours she could spend petting their scales, warm as the sunbaked sands, their hearts full of shared contentment.

After a while they began to kiss, the tickle of his beard a pleasant contrast with the softness of his lips. She shifted, so her thighs were spread over his legs, and poked at his hair.

"I would have you unloosen this," she said, not wanting to pull at it.

He chuckled, reaching up and removing the tie out with a quick twist of his fingers.

She stroked it out loose and then buried her fingers in it. It was silky soft, and she could feel the warmth of his head the closer she got to the roots as she stroked it, rocking her hips slowly against his hardening length, tasting the mead on his lips. Did her weight upon him make him feel like he belonged? She hoped that it did.

"My hair is becoming an obsession," he teased, his own hands straying down to cup her ass.

"I do not begrudge you your areas of particular interest," she murmured back, wiggling her bottom against the contact. "Now _do_ I?"

He laughed, nuzzled her cheek. "No, your grace. You are far too kind." He began kissing from her ear down her neck in a slow line that made her hips move faster, her breath come short.

Daenerys pulled his shirt off over his head and smoothed her hands over the silky skin of his beautiful shoulders, the muscles of his chest, accented by the rough gouges of scars. Those were beautiful too, though it was beauty of a different kind. They were emblems of courage and sacrifice. A heart so good he took a knife and returned to continue his work. To care for his people. Love his family. Make love to her.

These thoughts stirred something greedy inside her. He was magnificent, in his modest way, and she wanted to possess him. Take him inside and never let him go. She worked the bottom of her night dress up, rubbing against him in her eagerness. He brought his fingers up, touching softly, to get her off before himself. She ignored that, worked his cock free of the ties on his trousers and his smallclothes and sank down on him, exhaling in satisfaction. He was there, just where she wanted him. Warm inside her, the feel of him familiar now, his whole body shuddering under her as she took him.

He followed her lead, changing tactics, his fingers pressed together to rub steady circles against her clit as his hips worked a slower pace, meeting her thrusts with his own. She rose up, pulling his head against her chest, increasing their pace. She loved taking him. If she could, she’d do it several times a day, to refresh herself. Like stretching until warmth spread throughout her body. They could start in the morning, him rolling over on top of her, making love to her with her knees pushed up, her hands pressed against the headboard. And then before lunch, bent over battle strategies, bracing herself and rocking back against him. She’d take him once more before bed. For a change, they would use their mouths, drawing it out, making it sleepy and sweet.

And, in between, a thousand kisses, hours of holding each other, as if that alone was all they could wish for. The mellow sweetness of it lending piquancy to the passion of their union.

They came together as easy as the moon moved with the tides, push and pull, push and pull. Daenerys gripped the hair at the nape of his neck tightly, pulling his body closer, driving for the catch she could feel eagerly yearning inside her, the precise right moment, harder and harder until she found it, bearing down on him as her inner muscles clenched around him in a silent cry of _mine mine mine_.

She rode her orgasm out and then softened her touch, stroking and petting him as he lost himself inside her, his fingers gripping her hips tightly, breath a shallow, hot pant against her throat. He moaned and sighed and sought his pleasure inside her. She was his whole world as he had been hers, all joy contained within her. Life and heat. He pressed his hot mouth against her throat as he came, a touch of teeth scraping against her throat unintentionally. She pulled him in, increased the contact, not caring if there were marks in the morning. It was such rich, satisfying foolishness, loving him.

He nuzzled her a while, enjoying the afterglow. And then, as if it was effortless, he stood up smoothly, right from the low couch, with her in his arms. Daenerys laughed. “My, how you strut,” she said, kissing his shoulder.

“Hm?” he murmured, innocently.

She gave his shoulder a gentle nip with her teeth. “You know very well that I mean.”

He sat on the bed and leaned back, so she was on top of him. “I’m sure I don’t,” he said, all sweet brown eyes and tousled hair. So, he _could_ lie, then, if only in jest.

Daenerys huffed a laugh and settled in against his chest, yawning. It was cozy and safe here, contentment in every fiber of her being. She felt him pulling blankets and furs up around them as she drifted, making a warm cocoon around her. Such a dear, sweet man.

-

The wisdom of their actions—or lack of it—struck her first thing in the morning, when there was a knock at the door. Of course the maids would be coming, and find them together. What had she been thinking?

They exchanged a horrified look and Jon leapt up out of the bed, as if he could somehow leave without being noticed. Or hide, she supposed. The very idea of that was too ridiculous.

“Just a moment!” she called out, and pushed his clothes into his hands. “Dress,” she whispered, helping him pull himself together.

More knocking came, louder. They rushed, she fastening his leather mail as he scraped his hair back into its tie.

The final result was decent enough, if no one looked too close. She would block the door and ask for privacy so that she and Jon might finish their perfectly innocent discussion of some matter of import. They should be easy enough to send away. The maids would gossip, but there was no evidence. She glanced at herself in the mirror, smoothing her night clothes, and headed for the door.

When she opened it, she was met with Lady Stark, an amused expression on her face. The maids were behind her, politely waiting to come forward. “Are you a late riser, your grace?” Lady Stark asked, in apparent sympathy. “I myself –“

Daenerys saw the exact moment Lady Stark noticed who was in her bedchamber: her expression froze, and then her eyes narrowed. She backed up a step, to prevent the maids behind her from seeing in, and turned to face them.

“Return with more hot water for her grace,” she ordered. When they left she turned back and gave them each a long, hard look. “Breakfast is ready in the hall, as are the lords. They await your battle strategy…” she looked right at Jon, “should you find the time for it,” she said, her tone cold as ice. She turned and left then, her carriage stiff.

This was not the impression Daenerys wished to give her future sister-in-law. Making her cover up a scandalous interlude. Dany felt no shame for making love as she chose, but she knew that other ladies felt differently. And she had done it under Lady Stark’s own roof. Dany hoped she could be talked around without too much pain; she would grieve if she lost the rapport they had begun to build yesterday. Grieve, and do all she could to repair it.

Jon looked appalled, but there was no time for that. “Please go,” Daenerys said, tiredly, “before the maids come back.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once more to notyourfuckingalatea, who goes over my drafts with a fine-tooth comb and helps me game out the characterization when I get stuck! You're amazing. :)
> 
> Beyond thanks, I wanted to give some insight into how this chapter starts. Sansa has an intense PTSD/panic reaction at the beginning, which might come as a shock - but please remember the circumstances of the prior chapter and try to have sympathy for her in this. Dany and Jon didn't really do anything wrong (though Jon has been a bit foolish in how he's handled the marriage question), but in the society of Westeros they took a big risk and one that, due to how it happened and how she found out, triggered some things for Sansa. 
> 
> One of my greatest frustrations with D&D's writing for her is that they have not really addressed the long-term fallout of having survived what she went though. I'm trying to do my best to address that. But that means depicting her in an altered state - and while there are fair points she could make in objection to the way Jon handled things in Chapter 3, I'm not writing that, I'm writing her speaking out of her own fear, grief, and trauma. She's scared and "catastrophizing." I hope that by allowing her to go there as honestly as I can I might bring some resolution that eases her burden somewhat going forward, though it's not the kind of thing that ever truly goes away. Sometimes just knowing that you're loved and understood can make moving forward easier. And, as Jon shows, he does understand, because he has his own experiences with trauma.
> 
> Anyway, this one took a lot of work, please let me know what you think! :)

Sansa felt as if someone had cored out her chest and replaced it with a long, dark tunnel, which she was being sucked into, deeper and deeper. Her hands were so cold, they ached, and slick with sweat at the palms. She laced them together, to warm them and stood, as if she was awaiting the gallows, in the hall outside Jon’s bedchambers.

She’d thought that Jon loved the queen. He spoke so highly of her, adoration in his eyes. It looked like something pure and good, if a bit naïve. Like Jon himself. All she had to do was persuade them to marry, and they might be happy, as her parents had been happy, secure in a gentle love that warmed without burning.

That was what she had wanted for Jon when she had pled her case to him the previous night. Trying to persuade him he was worthy of marriage. But he hadn’t cared a whit. He’d gone straight from her room to the queen’s and dishonored her.

He probably thought it was funny, what a stupid little girl Sansa still was. How little she understood men, no matter how much evidence she was given. Lost in her silly dreams.

If anyone else had found them, it would have dealt a blow to the queen’s reputation. Ladies lived and died by their virtue. As ladies across Westeros told their daughters, men respected a pure bloom, but a tattered flower they trampled in the dust. Even Littlefinger had shown the decency of restraining himself to stolen kisses, if only so she could be intact for sale to Ramsay Bolton. But Jon had treated the queen as if her very survival meant nothing to him.

Jon could not possibly be confused about the gravity of what he’d done. It was their father’s greatest sin, to have dishonored his mother outside the bounds of marriage. Their entire family had carried that burden, but none so much as Jon himself.

What she had seen was not pure and good and he knew it. He must have done it on purpose. She recalled the rumpled look of the queen's nightgown, her hair in disarray from pawing hands, the guilt in her eyes. And Jon standing there, the cause of it.

Sansa swallowed hard around the knot in her throat. How could he treat the queen like that? If his love was not pure and good, then what did that say of him?

And why did the queen permit it? Sansa had heard that the men of Essos demanded more from their ladies than the men of Westeros. There were tales, whispered among girls, of ladies being made to serve a year as a women of easy virtue in their wanton temples. When Sansa heard this talk at the Red Keep she’d known that she’d rather die. It was almost more than she could bear, being the plaything of one man and his family. To belong to so many, and for a whole year…

Had the queen been subjected to that? Perhaps she had grown accustomed to enduring men’s demands. She might not know how dangerous it was to her here. She might have thought she owed it to Jon, for his kingdom, and he had taken advantage of it, as it seemed any man would. There was none good enough to resist the cruelty of desire.

Foolish as she was, Sansa still couldn’t understand it. She tried to bring her image of Jon together with the things men did to women in lust. Tried to imagine the same hands that held and comforted her pushing the queen down, forcing her legs apart... Sansa gripped her hands tighter, clutching them to her chest as if to still the sickness in her stomach, the sour heat at the back of her throat.

Some women did seem to enjoy the act. Aunt Lysa had shrieked in long, horrid howls of pleasure when she’d lain with Littlefinger. And Myranda had enjoyed Ramsay’s games as much as he did. Relishing the opportunity to tell Sansa how they would use and mutilate her, until there was nothing left of her but a womb to grow sons in. But they had been awful, twisted women, full of madness and rage. Sansa had seen nothing of that in Queen Daenerys.

The queen was such a small, pretty woman. Her hand on Sansa’s arm had been light and delicate. How could Jon want to hurt her?

There was still time. She could return to her room and forget. It could be like some cruel dream that came only to lift in the morning light. But it wouldn’t go away; it would wait, another doom that might fall on their heads at any time while she stood idle, too weak to face it. She couldn’t let that happen. Not again.

She saw him round the corner then, his steps slowing as he came toward her. When he reached her, he gave her a short nod and continued toward his bedchamber. She watched him, the way he moved, with easy power and a kind of rugged grace, and tried to understand. She had seen him beat Ramsay Bolton nearly to death, the bones of his face giving way under Jon’s fists, but Jon was like Ghost in her mind. Their power arose from love, not cruelty. Their violence was reserved for wicked men. It made something frightened inside her relax to be near them, and know that she was safe.

But how long had she truly known him? He might have spent his years at the Wall putting his knife to the throats of captive Wildling women. Making them do things. Surely even Joffrey had been gentle with his sister, if only for love of his mother. But that hadn’t protected Sansa from him.

 _If I don't watch over you,_ she recalled Jon saying, gentle humor in his eyes, _Father's ghost will come back and murder me._ Was that all that stood between her and something dark inside him? Were all men cruel to the women they desired?

Sansa felt like weeping for the person she had been stupid enough to think she loved. Someone noble and kind, like a knight in a song. Still, he had never hurt her. The thought gave her the courage to follow him into his bedchamber, though not to stand too close. She went to the window and stared at him, her hands clenched together in front of her.

“Must we discuss this?” he asked, standing near the hearth. There was naught but embers there, another reminder of where he had spent the night. He wasn’t meeting her eyes.

“I _pleaded_ with you to marry her,” Sansa gasped out, heart in her throat. “How could you do this?”

“It’s a private matter,” he said, still not looking at her.

“You told me you could never find a better queen, not in a thousand years!” she cried. She looked over him, the stiff line of his back. He had sounded like a man in love. But, then, so too had Littlefinger. Was love of a woman always something ugly in men? “Did you mean it?”

He turned his head then, and there was hurt in his eyes. “Of course I did. How can you doubt it?”

“You’ve dishonored her in our own home!” Sansa said, her voice cracking.

He turned to face her fully, mouth opening and then closing, his eyes wide. She looked over his rumpled clothes, the curls he hadn't caught up in his hastily arranged bun. Again her mind tried to put together a picture of what it might be like, what she knew of him, gentle and warm and strong, and the beautiful little queen, soft as silk and just as fine, combined with what she knew of... that. She felt hot and unsettled, feverish and angry.

“What if I hadn’t been there? What if someone saw?” She stepped closer, heart hammering as she felt compelled to approach. “They’ll call her a _whore_ , Jon. They’ll turn their backs on her. She’ll never be queen, not in any way that matters. She won’t be loved and admired. She’ll only hold power through fear of her dragons and one day someone will kill her for it.”

Sansa’s head felt light with sickening visions. There was a tremor in her chest, like a bird beating its wings bloody against the bars of an iron cage. The tremor spread out across her body, making her voice and hands shake. If she and Arya could make plans for the queen’s death, so could others. The queen would be under constant threat. She would have to sit in the Red Keep and become twisted and hateful. Her beauty and clever wit would be shattered, the pride that glowed within her quenched. For every man she burned as a traitor, three more would rise up in his place. Long before they finally killed her, she would die inside, watching everything she hoped for turned to ashes in her hands.

“Don’t think that they won’t,” Sansa warned him. “They will ruin her and then they’ll _kill_ her. And for what?” she demanded. She was so close to him now she could see the flecks of amber, sweet as honey, in his gentle brown eyes. Where was the monster, hidden in this man that she loved? She feared and hated it and felt compelled to force it into the light. “For some _base lust_. A few minutes of...” ladies did not swear, but she said the next words with all the hatred of a curse, “stupid, _hateful_ , ugly…”

His eyes were wide and concerned. “Sansa,” he said, gently. “Please...” He reached out to her.

She smacked his hand away, as hard as she could and then flinched back, her breath coming in short pants, terrified of what he might do.

He moved away from her, until he found himself at one of the chairs near the fireplace. When he backed into it he steadied himself with a hand on the arm and then sat, staring at her. She couldn’t find the thing she feared in him, no matter how hard she looked. The tremor in her chest stilled, even as her mind did not. Nothing made sense, her love and fear twisted together into a hard knot. Which was true?

"We'll stop," he said, quietly. "No one knows. None of what you fear will come to pass, Sansa." His eyes tracked over her. "We'll stop," he repeated.

Sansa's breath eased. She wrapped her arms around her waist. "Don't you love her?" she asked, and her voice sounded very young to her own ears.

"I do," he said, earnestly. Sansa couldn’t see a lie in it.

"Men always say that," Sansa said, speaking the sorrow deep within her heart. So much cruelty, and they called it love. Why did it have to be that way? "But the things they do aren't loving.”

He looked sad. “I’ve never hurt her,” he said. “Last night was foolish but—“ he heaved a breath, “not _base lust_.” Saying the words seemed to pain him. “That is not fair to either of us, Sansa.”

“Then what was it?” What else was there?

“Soon we will face the Night King,” he said. “And we fear losing each other.” He swallowed, a terrible heartbreak in his eyes. “I cannot protect my queen, who I love. Instead, I have to send her into battle. Can you understand—“ his lips thinned. “I know Daenerys looks strong upon her dragon, but the Night King felled Viserion with one spear. One shot.” He looked at her hard, searching her face. “She will not be a queen triumphant in the air, Sansa, she will be a target. And I have to be the one to send her up there. My battle plans require it.”

She imagined Jon and the queen holding each other all night, as innocent as children afraid of the dark. With no family left, did the queen have anyone else to love her, truly love her as a woman rather than a queen? Sansa could recall what it was like to be that alone. She had clung to Jon so tightly after she got him back. Fear of Ramsay drove her determination to die if Jon fell in battle, but so did the knowledge that there would be nothing left for her in this life. There was so little love to be found anywhere. And the queen was such a warm person. Sansa could feel it, even in the casual touches they had exchanged. The more she thought about what a comfort they must be to each other, the more shame she felt for what she had said, what she had thought.

Sansa found her way to the other chair, resting her shaking hand on it and easing down to sit. Her other hand was still pressed to her chest, but there was nothing left to hold back. Just minutes ago, there had been so much ugly feeling inside her and now there was just a hollow emptiness.

This made sense. This was who he was. Everything else was a wicked lie, brought up from the depths of her own wretchedness. She had behaved like a mad woman, raising her voice and striking at him. Accusing him of vile things, when he’d spent his entire life proving he was more than the stain of his birth.

There was so much filth inside her. Ugly, disgusting, hateful things. And she’d poured them all out before him. He’d seen everything. She felt naked and ashamed and so cold. “I’m sorry,” she said, and heard the shake in her own voice. “I didn’t mean it. I—“ she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, wishing she could take it all back, so he would never have to know, never have to see how ruined she was inside.

It was her love that had been twisted and made corrupt, not his. The men who had used her had left that inside her and nothing could ever wipe them away, no matter how hard she tried. The filth would always be waiting inside to destroy everything she loved.

Jon stood and moved away. She thought he was leaving her there and felt despair choke her, tears heating her eyes.

But then he returned, carrying a blue wool blanket from his own bed. He leaned over and put his hand on the arm of her chair, in a silent question. She’d given him reason for concern, striking out at him just minutes ago. But he hadn’t left her. He still cared. The heat of her tears was sharp in her eyes. She forced them back, nodding her acceptance.

Jon wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, tucking it warmly into place. She clutched at it, holding the weight of its comfort close. He knelt in front of her on one knee, smoothing a hand over her arm through the blanket. After a while, he began to speak, gently, as if he was telling her a story.

“For a time, I thought all of you were lost. Stannis offered me Winterfell, but only if I tore up the heart tree by the roots and burned it in the name of his god.” He looked pained. “That made it hurt more,” he said, “until it was like there was an animal inside me, a dark, shadow thing made of all my grief and rage. During practice one day, I attacked a brother of the Watch. I could have killed him.” He shook his head. “I don’t even remember it. Just the two men pulling me off him and how… ashamed I felt, after. It was monstrous, to strike at a brother after he had cried yield. But no one held it against me.” He took her cold hand in his, which felt as warm and toasty as a hot brick at the foot of her bed in winter. “The things that happen to us don’t just live in our minds, Sansa,” he said, “they live in our bodies, our hearts. And they must have their say.” He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it. "You've been taking care of everyone," he said. "You’ve been so strong. But they must have their say."

He wasn’t disgusted or afraid. Instead, he was letting her know that he understood. She gripped his hand and closed her eyes, convincing herself that this was true. She’d fallen and instead of being dashed on the rocks, he caught her. Sansa felt the shame lift from her heart, not entirely, but enough. As he had intended. She opened her eyes and reached out, stroking a loose, silky curl back from his forehead. “Let me speak to the queen on your behalf,” she said, cupping his cheek, the coarser hair of his beard tickling her palm, “please. Then you might spend all your remaining nights together, without shame.”

A soft look came over his face. “You are most determined,” he said, faint amusement playing at the corner of his lips. He seemed relieved that she was acting more herself.

“She will not find a better husband,” Sansa said, stroking his cheek with her thumb, “not if she looked for a thousand years.” She believed it, with all her heart, and was satisfied to hear the strength of her own voice attest to it.

She saw pink color his cheeks. “You are kind,” he said.

“I am _honest_ ,” she said. “And something of an expert in husbands,” she added, risking the joke. The humor felt freeing; there was relief in her heart when she saw him give a little smile in response. She was not so very strange or ugly. She could still be herself.

His hand came up, to cover hers where it rested against his face. “Speak to her,” he said. “But promise me that you won’t ask more than she is willing to give and,” he leaned into her palm and looked at her, such warmth in his eyes, “promise me you will take time to rest first.”

“I will,” she said, glad to swear anything to secure his consent in this. “I promise.” She stroked the same curl, which had fallen again across his forehead, back. “You must neaten yourself and go speak to the lords before they fret.”

He heaved a gusty sigh. “I’ll miss your noble protection,” he joked. “You are,” he sketched a circle in the air with his free hand, “a most fair shield to shelter behind.” He finished the gesture with his fist across his chest, as though he wielded the shield he’d named her.  

Sansa laughed and gently poked his shoulder. “Go,” she said, “you’ve faced worse.”

“Aye,” he said, smoothing the blanket around her one final time as he stood. “We’ll speak later.”

The blanket smelled like the cloves and sweet fennel of the soap Jon preferred. Sansa cuddled it close around her, staring into the dead embers of his fire a long while. She’d shown him something terrible and he'd given her only kindness in return. It was still there, inside her heart, the monster she feared, the dark thing made of rage and grief Jon had spoken of. But Sansa wasn’t just a liar barely keeping it at bay anymore, terrified that a single glimpse would drive love away. It had come out and they had tamed it, just a bit. She was bigger and stronger than it. And she had a job to do.

She would see Jon and the queen happy, so they could be a comfort to each other in these darkening days. They would battle the dead together and find rest together too, holding each other in the night. She pictured them cuddled close, the queen cradled against Jon's chest, his hand gently stroking her hair. She knew how good it felt, to be safe in his arms, and she had felt something of the queen's warmth too. Her soft, dainty hands and the way she could be so perfect, so small, and yet so grand in spirit.

She wanted to cup her hands around their beauty, their sweetness, and protect it from harm. She was not a warrior, not like they were, but she would make sure they had that. They would have all the strength and love she could secure for them, so they would be fully armored for their fight. She would do everything in her power to keep them alive, body and soul.

Sansa took the blanket with her when she returned to her own chambers. After throwing the bolt on her door, she curled up on her bed. Ghost climbed up beside her, the bed sinking under his weight, and flopped down in front of her. The warmth him was comfort made solid against her body. She buried her face in his soft fur and let her tears fall. They were gentle, tracing cleansing paths down her face as the monster in her heart found a newer, softer way to settle. After a while, she slept.

-

The morning was not as excruciating as Daenerys feared. Jon was very good at this. She had known it from the moment she had seen the light of respect come into Jorah's eyes as they discussed strategy and she saw it now with his lords. They listened attentively and asked thoughtful questions. Because of the nature of the Night King's recruitment of the dead, the goal was to prevent as many losses as possible. It was the only way to diminish the enemy’s ranks.

Jon’s plan was for her Unsullied to maintain shield walls while archers fired dragonglass arrows from behind them and she burned the undead from above. Only once they were softened up would a direct attack be made, first by cavalry and then by foot soldiers to mop up. Prior to that, he had plans for ambush sites throughout the North. He knew his land better than anyone and knew areas where the topography might be used to divide the enemy. Places where oil traps could be hidden and then lit on fire as the dead had marched through, burning hundreds at once.

Daenerys was pleased, but she keenly felt the absence of Lady Stark’s bright presence at her side. It boded ill for her plan to unite their families. And it meant that she was without good company; she knew the plans already and would have enjoyed Lady Stark’s sharp wit on such a dreary, grey morning.

She had known that Westerosi sexual mores could be conservative, outside of Dorne. But it was not until she saw the cold anger on Lady Stark’s face and the depth of guilt in Jon’s eyes that she realized how sharply felt those rules could be. In must have been even more difficult than she had thought, to grow up a bastard in such a place. But, if this could be smoothed over, it would be a good lesson. Dany had to consider the feelings of her people in this. She must forego Jon’s company as she worked to secure the marriage. Hopefully, she would not have to be without him for long.

As she watched Jon circle the war table, Daenerys was reminded of the last time she had met to prepare for battle with her allies. Around a table a Dragonstone she had held a court of great women: Olenna Tyrell, Yara Greyjoy, Ellaria Sand. In their faces Dany saw hope for the future she wished to build, one where anything was possible. Even an alliance of women, standing together.

In Olenna, especially, Daenerys saw the mothers and grandmothers she had never known. Young women like Missandei and Doreah had taught her much, but what must it be like, to be guided by women of age and experience? She longed to learn and bring what comfort she could to the lady who had lost so much.

Then, one by one, they were taken from her. Each time she heard the news, she felt there must be gods, for random chance alone could not be so cruel. Raining down fire upon the Lannisters and their allies, burning those who had betrayed Lady Olenna, brought some relief. _You are a dragon,_ she’d said, _be a dragon._ And so Daenerys had been a dragon for Lady Olenna, in memory of her. But the relief had faded too soon, along with the scent of burning flesh.

For all that Jon’s plans were calm and wise, the truth beneath them was ugly. Within a few short days, Daenerys would allow her two remaining children, her soldiers, and her lover to face the monster that had killed Viserion. Their world would become nothing but biting cold, struggle, and death. They may be reborn from it and step into a better world. Or they might fall.

Many of them would fall.

If only they could go straightway to the weirwood and marry before Jon’s gods, so they might enjoy their time before the battle. There would be no more need for conflict or absurd pantomimes in the morning. Just the honest affection between them, a circle of warmth in long, cold days. And the chance to learn more of the family she had made hers. She admired the Starks. They had a way of loving each other and their people that she wanted to learn from so she could incorporate it into her own reign.

As the lords left the hall, Jon came to sit beside her. “They will acquit themselves well,” he said. “We can only hope the plans suffice.” He was cooler and more appropriate than he had ever been with her. It saddened her, but was also cause for relief: it would be easier to stay away if he did his part. Dany had known sophisticated men who wooed her with courtly ways. He was all the more charming because he made no attempt to charm. Instead he expressed honest adoration the likes of which she had never known. She had never been loved so deeply as both a woman and a queen. Men tended to prefer one or the other. Jon found no contradiction in holding the woman when she needed to be weak and yet still serving the queen absolutely when she stood strong.

It was difficult to resist.

“They are good plans,” Daenerys said.

“Thank you, your grace.” He did not look comforted.

“If they weren’t,” she said, her tone arch, “you can be _sure_ your lords would say so. At great length.” Perhaps that was one of the only good things about having such insolent nobles.

He cracked a smile at that. “Aye,” he said, “they are generous with their opinions.”

Daenerys was reminded, with sadness, of Lady Stark’s sharp tongue yesterday. Were she with them, she would have something disarmingly clever to say, on the subject of the lords. Daenerys regretted her absence. “I missed Lady Stark’s good company this morning,” she told Jon, probing at the topic. She needed to know the extent of the damage they’d done.

He frowned. “She wishes to speak to you.”

“Oh?” she asked. And then added, quiet enough so prying ears would not overhear: “Should I worry?”

“She likes you,” he said. “And I know you will be kind to her.” He bit his lip, his expression full of concern. “But you must do only what you think best.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrows. She had no idea what he meant. What could Lady Stark want for him to speak of it like this? The possibilities were worrying. “I will be kind,” she promised, “but I am not prone to being persuaded against my best interests in any matter, Jon.”

“Of course not,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “I only meant –“ he drew a short breath, “I am honored to serve you, your grace. In whatever capacity you deem fit.” There was pure truth in his in eyes, as there had been the first time he swore to her. His word meant more to her than that of ten thousand men who would swear an oath and hold something back. When he swore himself to her, he gave her everything.

Daenerys felt a rush of affection for him warm her heart.

“And I am honored by your trust,” she said, sincerely, though she was confused about why he felt it needed to be said again. How angry was Lady Stark, precisely? Before she could inquire further, Lady Arya came in, sitting on the table beside Jon’s chair, her legs swinging loose.

“We’ll lose the light if we don’t spar soon,” she said, snatching a piece of cheese from Jon’s plate and tossing it in her mouth. “Morning, your grace,” she said in Daenerys’ direction, casual as ever.

Daenerys nodded back. “Good morning, Lady Arya.”

“How’s the weather?” Jon asked, taking a bite of cheese for himself, apparently inspired by his sister's theft.

“Just some light flurries kicking up.”

“All right,” Jon said, standing. “I’ll have to fetch a practice sword first.”

Lady Arya rolled her eyes and extended a foot, poking him in the leg. “I can hold my own, Jon.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “Sansa told me of your bout with Lady Brienne.”

Lady Arya smiled. “Did she?”

Jon patted her knee. “She’s very proud of you,” he said and Daenerys was reminded of the way he assured her of Lady Stark’s good opinion of her. He wanted to nurture a circle of kindness and understanding around himself, between the people he loved. Was he recreating the family life he had known or trying to create something he had wished for and _not_ known? Daenerys suspected it was a bit of both, and felt for him. She wanted a family like that too.

“But I won’t raise Longclaw against you, Arya.”

“Well, you won’t catch me without Needle,” Lady Arya said. “Which means you’ll be at a disadvantage.” There was a warning lilt in her voice, and she aimed another swing of her foot toward him.

Jon casually grabbed it mid-swing and gave it a gentle shake before releasing it. “You can learn a lot,” he said, “at a disadvantage.” There was an instructive note to his voice and Dany thought that must be what older brothers sound like, when they’re good men. A little too paternal for a girl of Lady Arya’s age not to be annoyed at, but she let it pass with little more than a roll of her eyes.

Daenerys imagined having nieces and nephews who were so easy with each other, so comfortable and capable. One of them might make for a good heir. Perhaps even one of the girls, if they took after Jon's sisters.

“Fine,” Lady Arya said, hopping down and grabbing his arm. “Are you coming, your grace?”

She was interested in seeing more of them; it was pleasant just to observe their affectionate banter. But she wanted to address the issue of Lady Stark as soon as possible. "I have matters to attend to," she said, standing. "But I look forward to hearing the outcome."

-

 

Daenerys returned to her chambers and sent word through a maid that she was available to speak to Lady Stark. She had considered seeking Lady Sansa out herself, but preferred to meet on more familiar ground. She straightened herself in the mirror and then sat to read a raven from Tyrion. If fair winds held, her fleet would be here in a matter of days.

When Lady Stark arrived she gave her customary dignified nod. She declined to sit, instead standing before the hearth, immaculate in her fine grey dress. Her hair was loose, apart from two small braids pulled back from her temples. The daylight was fading quickly, though it was barely noon, and the maid had stoked a fire for Daenerys. The light reflected in Lady Stark’s hair, so it seemed that liquid flames poured down her back.

Dany noted that her manner was, as it had been with the lords, a touch theatrical. Her posture and words designed to convey that the lady was worthy of respect. Dany watched her closely, wondering how she would play this. After a while the lady turned, her gaze cool, assessing. "Do you intend to proceed by taking kingdoms from men on their sickbeds, your grace?" It was a sharp question and Lady Stark did nothing to soften it.

She was as cool and austere as the North itself, looking down at Daenerys. There was great courage in her, to address a queen in such a manner. There were many times Dany herself had played this game, drawing her pride around her and facing down an unforgiving world. Daenerys kept her own expression closed, but felt kinship with this brave lady.

There was something to be admired in her honesty too. This was the first time they had spoken in private together and Lady Stark was treating her the way Dany had tried to persuade her advisors to behave. Respectful but open and direct. Until now, only Missandei had perfectly understood her heart in this. If no one honestly raised their concerns in private, how could she become a good monarch? Dany had seen in her own brother how flattery and false words had made him weak.

Daenerys raised her eyebrows. “You speak of your brother.” She was pleased that Lady Stark had chosen to overlook this morning. The nature of this complaint was confusing, however. That conversation with Jon was such a tender, pure moment in Dany's own mind.

“Yes. He’s told me of how he came to bend the knee.”

“His pledge was given freely,” Daenerys explained. “I offered my armies and dragons first, without any stipulations.” Jon might have explained it badly to his sister, but there was nothing in it for Dany to be ashamed of.

Lady Stark looked disappointed in her. “You must know how tender-hearted my brother can be,” she said, her words carefully phrased to highlight the injustice she saw without accusing Dany directly. “He made his pledge while feverish and without counsel. He felt responsible for the loss of your child.”

It _had_ been an unusual circumstance, now that Daenerys tried to see it from Lady Stark’s point of view. She should have called Ser Davos in, at least. But it had felt so natural and intimate. The way Jon responded to her moment of weakness with nothing but support, his hand tenderly squeezing her own. He was determined to be strong for her and she had needed that so much it was easy to forget his own vulnerability.

Perhaps she had taken advantage.

"You come to tell me this,” Daenerys said, weighing the matter, "but Jon has not. He has expressed no reluctance to me.”

“He gave you his word,” Lady Stark said. “Even given under duress, he would never go back on it. Or try to renegotiate the terms of your alliance.” The corners of her lips turned down. “You may have noticed that he is not in the habit of putting himself forward politically?” she asked. There was just enough fondness in her voice to soften her evident frustration.

Daenerys struggled to keep from smiling. It must be difficult for Lady Stark to stand back and watch her brother at times. Daenerys remembered her own fondness and annoyance in the Dragonpit as he struggled to deal honestly with Cersei Lannister. It was as absurd as trying to appeal to a wight’s better nature, but his own good nature required it.

She and Lady Stark might build from this shared feeling, Daenerys thought. She had convinced herself that she would have to persuade Jon’s family to welcome a marriage. But that was the direction Lady Stark seemed to be steering them toward now. All Dany had to do was sit back and let the lady persuade her. If only everything could be so easy! “But you have no such reluctance, I see,” Dany said, keeping her own expression cool, determined to play her role here. “You seek to put him forward – but for what?”

“Marriage, your grace.” Lady Stark spoke the words plainly and then let them stand as the silence dragged out, her expression unchanging.

Daenerys gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “That is a great deal to ask,” she said. “As you know, I must choose carefully.”

“Our family has extensive connections in Westeros, your grace. Our lineage goes back thousands of years and our kin have married into all the noble bloodlines.” Her arguments were carefully laid out. From the way she stood, hands clasped, shoulders back, she seemed to have a whole host of them ready at her command. “Of the remaining sons of great families, Jon is the best candidate. He is near to your own age, gifted in the art of battle, healthy, and kind.” A wry glint came into her eye then. “I have married one of your other options myself," Lady Stark said, referring to Lord Tyrion, "and considered the rest. I regret that I cannot speak so highly of them."

“Our prospects overlap,” Daenerys observed, amused at the thought of the two of them circling the same small group of noblemen. After all the bloodshed, it was a small group indeed.

“They do,” Lady Stark said, but did not criticize anyone specifically. It was wise to not try to tarnish other houses directly, especially not when there was a clear issue with her own.

“And what of Jon’s legitimacy?” Daenerys asked, raising the clearest objection.

“That would be an easy matter,” Lady Stark assured her. “The common acclaim of the lords which crowned him king effectively recognized him as Ned Stark’s heir. You need only formalize it.”

Lady Stark had gotten the chance to display her fine arguments and Daenerys had the opportunity to admire them as she tested her future sister-in-law’s mettle, but there was no need to go further with this charade.

“Marriage,” Daenerys said, “very well, then. I had planned on it. And if you’re here, Jon is willing.” She remembered then how earnestly he had sworn himself to her this morning, so she would know that a rejection would not diminish his service to her. Indeed, the way he’d phrased it made her think he had even expected a rejection. It was endearing, how he presumed nothing of her, yet stood ready to give her everything. She might spend a lifetime surprising him with joy. It was a happy thought. She watched as Lady Stark’s lips parted in shock. That was rather endearing too.

Before Lady Stark could collect herself, Daenerys pushed further. “That’s what he and I want,” Daenerys said, “but what do you want, Lady Stark? Why are _you_ here? This cannot be the ordinary way of things, in Westeros.”

Since the issue of marriage was resolved, Daenerys could begin to forge a bond with her sister-in-law to be. Lady Stark was a woman of intelligence and clearly had a great deal of influence over Jon. Dany didn’t wish to have her husband caught between them. Not when she might have the benefit of both. Might they be sisters in truth, as the Stark siblings were with each other, or would they be separate realms co-existing in an uneasy peace?

“I wish to advocate on his behalf, for the well-being of our people—“ Lady Stark said, looking uneasy.

Daenerys shook her head. “But what do _you_ want, Lady Stark?” she asked again. Sometimes the best way to see a person’s true nature was offer them anything and see what they made of it.

Lady Stark’s mouth opened and then closed. “I pray you forgive me, your grace. I don’t understand.”

There was so little room in the world for women to want things. Daenerys intended to change that. If she could draw out Lady Stark’s true heart and give her what she desired, they could become a family forged in joy. Their bond could be as strong and nourishing as Winterfell itself, warming and sustaining all of them.

“Everyone wants something from a marriage,” Daenerys said. “When I was just fifteen my brother sold me for an army.” She saw shock register on Lady Stark’s face, and then quiet sympathy. They had both been bought and sold and understood each other in this without needing to say more. Dany’s heart rose at that feeling. She continued, convinced she was on the right path in trying to unearth the truth of Lady Stark’s heart. “Are you selling your brother for a finger of influence,” she said, raising her index finger, “with the Iron Throne?”

“I love my brother,” Lady Stark replied, heat in her tone. “If I tried to use him to influence you, you would come to resent him. I swear, I would never want that.”

Daenerys noted that the lady swore that she would never want that, but not that she would never do it. Dany suspected that, like herself, if Lady Stark was forced into it, there was very little she would not do to protect what was hers. “Then what _do_ you want?”

Lady Stark’s eyes were fixed on her and full of wariness. Daenerys had pulled her far beyond any script she had composed for this meeting. “A Stark has always been Warden of the North,” Lady Stark ventured, finally.

That was more than fair. In fact, as with the marriage, Daenerys had already planned on it. Lady Stark had proven she could do the job well and it would be unpleasant to try to find anyone so capable among the Northern nobles. “I agree,” Daenerys said. “You will make a very fine Lady Paramount.”

Again, Daenerys had the privilege of stunning the cool and collected Lady Stark. She actually raised her hand to her chest in shock, staring at Daenerys as if she’d gone mad. “But no such title exists, your grace.”

“I am the queen,” Daenerys said, “and I say that it does.” She smiled, fierce joy rising in her heart. There was no power like the power to be generous with those who were her own. Even the satisfaction of destroying her enemies was but a pale shadow of that true joy. “My dear Lady Stark,” she said gently, “I’m afraid that Jon is not the only Stark who is not in the habit of putting himself forward.”

Lady Stark came over to the couch then, and sat beside Daenerys, her hands folded on her knees. “Truly?” she asked, a look of desperate hope on her face.

It was a vulnerable side of the lady that Daenerys had not seen before. She felt honored, to have succeeded in drawing such a reserved lady out, and eager to secure her affection. Daenerys reached out, clasped her cool hand. “Truly, my lady.” When she had first called Jon ‘my lord’ he had not understood the implied message. Lady Stark would take it for the assurance it was meant to be. Dany leaned in, as if to share a secret. “You have the respect of the people already,” she said, repeating Lady Stark’s own words back to her. “I need only formalize it.”

There were tears shining in Lady Stark’s eyes and Daenerys felt a lump in her own throat at witnessing the beauty of it. It was so rewarding and so easy to be generous with her dear Starks. They had known so little appreciation and so much cruelty. She would take great pleasure in changing that.

“And if I were to marry—“ Lady Stark began, her quick mind already working at it.

“You would remain my Lady Paramount, regardless. I intend for there to be titles women might possess for themselves and pass to their children.”

Lady Stark was shaking her head, concern filling her expression. “Westeros has only known the rule of men, your grace. They will not ease their grip without a fight.”

“I am the queen,” Daenerys repeated, stroking her thumb over Lady Stark’s fingers. They were long and elegant, and very soft. Sansa’s hands were larger than Dany’s, but so pretty. An artist’s hands, she thought, recalling what Jon had said of her talent with the womanly arts. “Jon says you are very good with your needle. I’ve never had a sister or mother—“ or grandmother or aunt or lady cousin, she thought, and swallowed her sadness, focusing instead on the joy before her, “to teach me. Would you be so kind?”

Lady Stark took a long moment to marvel at her, blinking in surprise. “I would,” she swore, “gladly. Arya never—“ she started, then caught herself. “Arya’s talents lie elsewhere.”

Daenerys looked down at her own hands. “You don’t suppose it’s too late to learn?”

Lady Stark turned her hand over, so Dany’s was cradled in her palm. She looked closely at each finger, her expression grave, tapping them lightly in turn. It was as if she was a maester examining an ancient tome. Warmth bubbled up in Daenerys’ chest, charmed by this gentler side of Lady Stark’s playfulness. “All present and accounted for,” Lady Stark said, a sparkle in her eyes. “All you need is interest and a little time to practice. We could begin with your sigil, if you like.”

Daenerys felt joy blossom in her own heart. “I warn you,” she said, matching Lady Stark’s gentle humor with her own, eager to play along, “I am a proud Targaryen. Once I have learned to leave my mark upon fabric you may struggle to find an item that I do not claim with it, from pillowcases to handkerchiefs.”

“As long as you restrain yourself in the matter of smallclothes,” Lady Stark replied, clearly fighting a smile as she tried to sound like a wise mentor giving advice, “which would not befit the honor of your house, I am sure it will be all right, your grace.”

Daenerys laughed, unable to keep the pretense up any longer. “You might call me Daenerys in private,” she said, “if we are to be sisters.”

Lady Stark’s fingers curled tenderly around Dany’s hand. “I will. But you must give me time to make the adjustment,” she said, “and you might call me Sansa in return, to ease the way.”

“Of course,” Daenerys said, “Sansa.”

“Daenerys,” Sansa replied, the name sounding lovely on her tongue.

They lingered in the moment together, at the beginning of a lifetime as family, appreciating the distance they had crossed in but one conversation. If they could come so far in such a short time, what might they accomplish in the years and decades ahead? Daenerys felt that finding out would be one of the great delights of her life. But that was the future, for now they had a marriage to organize.

“So,” Daenerys said, steering them back to the matter at hand, “how do you suppose my husband-to-be fared in his bout with Lady Arya?”

“Why don’t we go find out?” Sansa stood, extending her arm. “I would like to see his face,” she said, smiling at the thought, “when you give him the happy news.”

Daenerys shook her head. “We will soon announce it to everyone, to boost morale. But I would like to give him my answer in private.” Though the proposal had been shared with his sister, she wanted to give him her answer where she alone might cherish his joy in it.

“Very well,” Sansa said. “I’ll fetch him for you.”


End file.
